


We're Open Tonight!

by AngieW



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Also George is the best lad of this story you cant change my mind, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Chapter 10 is a sad slap in the face, Fluff, George the chef living his best life, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, John the depressed lad crushing hard, M/M, Main focus is Mclennon but Starrison has a big place still, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Paul the professional delivery/waiter lad, Poverty, Protective George, Ringo the cute disco boy, Romance, Serious Yet Humorous, Starring:, a rather light and sweet fic for the first nine chapters, i guess?, then we get into the ANGST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:55:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 97,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27046084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngieW/pseuds/AngieW
Summary: On a Saturday night, in Colquitt Street, Liverpool, John and Ringo are hungry, but lazy. They decide for once to order at their local Indian restaurant, "Hot Chillies", impatient to get their food at their doorstep.But no one had warned John that the delivery lad would be that beautiful.Nor did anyone warn Ringo the chef would be so lovely.Ensue a long quest for John to charm the delivery lad (or be charmed). But troubles lie ahead, and nobody thought it could get so complicated. They will take this, one day at a time...A humorous and serious modern AU, sad and fluffy like life.
Relationships: George Harrison & Paul McCartney, George Harrison/Ringo Starr, John Lennon & Ringo Starr, John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 256
Kudos: 173





	1. Eat At Home

**Author's Note:**

> READ FOR MORE DETAILS ABOUT THE STORY:  
> Hey guys! Here I go again for a new story! It's a rather large project that I've been working on since the beginning of July, with a serious plot, while trying to remain humorous, light and fluffy. Some details you should know before reading:  
> \- Tags will be added as the story goes on, as not to spoil anything. As I don't wanna trigger anyone, I would like to say there will be no heavy stuff mentioned (you're not getting suicide or self-harm or rape or anything like that), but it will deal with some homophobia, both internalized and not.  
> \- There will be no graphic description of sex. It will either be mentioned or suggested, but not written, as I want the story to be open to a majority of people.  
> \- The chapters are named after solo beatles song, so if you guessed the artist and album, tell me! It's a lil game  
> \- There are multiple references to songs, artists, movies, books, so if you liked them don't hesitate to tell me.  
> \- I will try to update a chapter by week. The minimum chapter length is about 4000 words, and the biggest can attain 9000 words; which is why it might take some time, as the chapters are rather big.  
> I hope you'll enjoy this story ^^ let me know if you did with comments (these makes my day) and kudos.
> 
> Special thanks to Dee for her undying love and support.

In 21 Colquitt Street, Liverpool, England, in a flat of not much privacy but warmth and humour, dinner time was approaching. But the kitchen remained empty on this Saturday night, during the end of April. The spacious white and grey place supplied with utensils and pans, with a stove silent and a fridge humming quietly, was devoid of any cook, and almost of any food. The two residents in their living-room — not separated from the kitchen by any wall but their kitchen table — knew about their situation, but were too bored to care about such things. Especially John.

Sprawled magnificently in black joggers, a white tank top shirt, and a glorious floral long see-through dressing gown, on their dark grey couch, he was too preoccupied to fathom such material matters like food; he’d rather starve than let go of his incessant scrolling posts after posts. He pushed his glasses on the bridge of his nose, his elbow knocking one of their colorful cushions on the way, but not disarranging the comfortable rainbow around his head. He was being inactive once again; he could do so many productive things instead of browsing through nothing; he could even open their blinds a bit more so he and Ringo would be able to admire the view of Liverpool under the sunset through their large windows on the far wall; too much work. Moreover, Ringo could do it. His flatmate was no better: he was leaning on one of their lonely chairs at their dinner table — the fourth one was used to support their record player. Large nose and blue eyes stuck to his phone screen. Not even had he taken the time to strip into comfier clothes, and he remained tied in tight trousers and button-down shirt. Every so often John caught a glimpse of him scratching his ungroomed beard. But mostly, John was staring mindlessly through his twitter feed, filled with peace and communism, politics and LGBTs. Life was unexciting.

After a long time, Ringo shifted behind him; nothing to break their agonizingly dullness. However the rumble of his stomach that followed at least disturbed their silence.

"John, I'm starving."

Naturally he was; John was too. But that was not a reason for him to get up and make the most delicious meal for his wonderful flatmate; in fact, Ringo could offer his service to John, he worked so hard today. He deserved food to be delivered to him! Even better, they both deserved food to be brought to them! Not being alone with an empty fridge and an empty stomach!

"Me too Rings," John sighed, his phone collapsing from his hands in defeat. "I guess we'll have to order something."

"Please not pizza again!" Ringo rushed out in a sort of desperate cry. John smirked, but his 26 years old flatmate was right; the pizza boxes from last Monday were still lying in a corner of the room. Placing his phone on the coffee table in front of him, he pivoted himself, so he was on his stomach, chest propped up by a green pillow, forearms on the armrest and hands cradling his chin, facing Ringo. Strands of hair that had gotten away from his low ponytail tickled his forehead. He sent Ringo a wink.

"Well what do you have in store instead, hum?"

He didn't have to ask twice, for Ringo stumbled and knelt in front of the armrest to be at eye-level. Hands on the armrest, he fiddled with his phone, till he found what he was searching for and an anticipating smile graced his features.

"How about sushi? We didn't eat any for a long time!"

"It's too expensive, Rings."

"Oh," a slight disappointment, but it was brushed aside."Then how about pastas?"

John winced. "You're not making me dream very much."

"Ok… then Greek?"

"Ritch you don't like greek food."

"Vegetarian?"

"Too green."

"...Fish and chips?"

"Too British!" John cried out

"That's it I give up," Ringo's face slammed on the armrest, groaning. His phone dropped off his hands and John was ridiculously happy to take on his job. With a mischievous smile, he started enumerating every restaurant name from the app, every place near them, making fake posh voices at any fancy ones, and ridiculous accents at others. The act made Ringo look up, and giggle at some, which only pushed John to do worse. It was only when he stumbled upon the name of "Hot Chillies" — said in a magnificent drawl on the 'L' — that Ringo and John's eyebrows lifted; the funky name was more unique than any they had crossed before; their interests were stirred up. With a nod from Ringo to go on, John proceeded to read out loud the description of the place. It was an Indian restaurant on Berry Street, which was less than a mile away from their flat. It was ranked by clients five stars, and received mostly excellent comments on the food. However, if they scrolled lower, to comments from a year ago, they were insulting and spiteful. They were serving everything, from traditional Indian meals to more street food treats, were vegetarian friendly, and spices lovers. Promising a memorable moment, tasty food and a nice atmosphere, they assured an efficient delivery service for anyone desiring it. What interested them was the price range: and it was relatively affordable; it wasn't cheap either, but at this point their hunger had taken over them, and seeing photos of delicious Indian food in the bio had entrapped them. John knew Ringo concluded the same thing: they were going to eat Indian food tonight.

A brief look on their menu and they had made their choice. A fast phone call and they were guaranteed to receive delicious and luscious food on their coffee table in less than an hour. With a proud smirk, John stood, patted Ringo's back, and moved to his bedroom. There he plopped on his white bed, took out his phone, and browsed once again for the rest of the time.

*** 

His bedroom wasn't the most exciting place ever, but it was the tidiest and classiest of their shared flat; unpretentiously because this was the only room that had remained untouched by Ringo's decorating suggestions. Some were strange: Ringo bought an octopus plush toy and insisted for it to be put on their shower head; "it will be a jollier place this way!" he had said, and now they had a plush toy octopus in their shower. Ringo was likely the only human being who thought bathrooms had to be funny places. Some other suggestions were not of John's tastes; he had to repeat ten times to Ringo that yes he preferred a classic red bedside lamp rather than a lava lamp — Ringo couldn't grasp that. So John's bedroom was untouched by what he deemed as the worst decorator ever, and he was glad of his pure white and light brown walls, wide dressing, acoustic guitar on the corner, colourful art supplies on his desk, and tons of social sciences books, novels and plays, and notebooks filled with drawings and poetry, all tucked safely in a shelf as tall as himself, next to another wide window. But his treasured book was in his hands, for he had finally let go of his phone during this long wait and dove into his favourite imaginary world; _Alice in Wonderland_.

About an hour or so of waiting, however, even the extravagant enchanting world of Alice wasn't enough to quench his impatience. They were supposed to be eating now, not waste their time once again. John couldn't concentrate with an empty stomach. What were they doing? Taking so much time for such minor orders shouldn't be allowed! Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up. He needed to complain. He had already planned to leave tons of lousy and humiliating reviews on TripAdvisor, their own website, on CafeCityguide and any other websites willing to share his outrage. But his first person of choice was, of course, Ringo.

He encountered him in the kitchen, quietly humming to himself as he was taking plates out of a cupboard — if he thought of it now, none of their cups were put there. The picture of calmness and contentment; the perfect counterbalance to John's balled fists and loud strides, where he exploded before Ringo could even notice him.

"Ringo, this is the worst delivery service we've ever had!" Ringo jolted, plates almost slipping out of his hands; the death glare he received was dismissed. He halted in front of the table, leaning his fuming body on it.

"I'm going to ruin their reviews section."

"John, please," Ringo sighed, not in anger but in an exhausted long breath of a man who had heard such dramatic declarations too many times before. As if unfazed by his glaring flatmate with his now untied hair a mess, he crossed the kitchen to the living-room, setting the plates onto the arranged coffee table. John observed his actions with a grimace. "We're Saturday night. It's normal they are busy. Just be patient."

This didn't quiet John's anger, for he only threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"How long still, huh? They told us less than an hour, and they lied!"

"John you making it sound as if they were doing it on purpose."

That shut John's mouth, and he had nothing to state in return to Ringo's patient smile and half shrug as he returned to look for glasses. The promise from Ringo's lips that at least the food would be good gave him a bit more strength to survive for another ten minutes. He watched Ringo move around in silence, contemplating his flatmate carefree behavior; pondered on how someone could be so free of his mind and yet so in touch with life. Even when Ringo left to change in comfy clothes, he remained in the kitchen, playing with the little trinkets on their kitchen table and amusing himself with the pages of a newspaper. Anything to keep his mind off. Anything to distract him. But the wait was long, so terribly long, and he wondered how he would behave when he'd land his eyes on the deliverer. He had a suspicion he would manipulate his powerful wit to humiliate the person just in front of their doorstep, making him regret ever setting foot in this building. He snickered; he already had insults piled up to throw at the person who would dare to ring their bell and come with cold food.

That was when their doorbell rang. They were here.

Ringo's raised voice resonated through the walls, asking him to take care of it. John complied: he grabbed his wallet, fixed his hair as it grazed his shoulders, opened his floral robe, moved his glasses closer to his eyes, and tilted his head high up like royalty. With a spring in his steps and a mischievous glint in his eyes, he hoped not to crush the kid too fast. He was prepared to make this deliverer face the fury of his wit. 

He slammed the door open, words ready to attack. However, his witty words died in his throat: an embarrassed lad had jumped in surprise. But when this same lad regained his composure and sent him a smile, John's jaw went slack. And his eyes shamelessly looked all over him.

Tall long legs, dressed in tight black jeans that hugged his arse and thighs nicely. Thin waist being partially hidden by a thick black sweater with Bowie's face on it, and puffed out chest. Arms holding a paper bag full of spicy food, but long rough fingers peeking out of the sleeves in a firm grip. A pure cream colored collarbone. Thick dark and soft hair, with messy bangs falling on his eyes. Eyes that were droopy yet opened wide, holding back their glimmer. Secrets of mischieves and desires behind hazel and green colors. Long eyelashes reaching to the clouds, but stopped on their way by arched brows. Button nose, straight and unflawed. Rosy tinted cheeks slightly wet from sweat. Lips so kissable with their perfect cupid's bow; pink, provocative, upturned in a pleasant smile; captivating. Enchanting him. A straight posture, back arched, head up, towering over him with only a centimetre. Mid-twenty young looking, with a gaze of a rare maturity. Beauty on his doorstep. A mix of unwavering strength with a calculating mind and a delicate and daring body. A voice, emerging from this enchanting delivery angel, deep and melodious, but controlled and practical, pronouncing his name magically.

"Hi! Are you John Lennon, from Colquitt Street?"

The overly civil tone, the way his face came to life with his words, his engaging and friendly demeanor, combined with everything John's eyes had just described were too much; he was devastated. In those moments he wished he wasn't so overly transparent; he meant he would have loved not to have trembling legs when he heard that voice, to be able to close his agape mouth, to make the red of his cheeks vanish. Sometimes he dreamt of self-control. The ability to answer back to this radiant and intimidating being with a casual voice, a controlled expression, and a stunning humor, would have made such a great impression on this man; too bad he didn't. Instead jumbled words came out of his mouth, after a long "errrrrr" and a dumb expression. He didn't realise it until the delivery lad raised an eyebrow in amusement. He flushed and composed himself as best as he couldn't; which meant he tied his robe around himself — Oh god was he really dressed like that? — and put his glasses back in place.

"Yes! Yes it's me."

"Great!" he flashed his teeth in another dazzling smile, and John blushed further. He had never thought someone could be smitten so fast; the voices in his head were rolling their eyes at him. The young man scratched the back of his neck. "I'm sorry for the delay. Clients kept coming in, we had to rush through all the orders, then the chef gave me a wrong address, and I thought I’d never get to you,” John’s intrusive thoughts made him shiver at this, while the deliverer regained his professional mask, that he had never really lost. He slightly bowed in front of him, which was so exaggeratedly respectful John didn’t know what to think of it. “I sincerely hope you can forgive me for the inconvenience. Your meal is on us.”

John’s eyes couldn’t get any bigger. First, he had been graced with the presence of a captivating yet mysterious being in his oh so dull days and second, he had a free meal. Was this a miracle? It couldn’t be, he wasn't religious. A small glimpse of a life where changes could happen? Breaking through his monotonous routine, sweeping him away from old habits; his dramatic mind was already thinking of possibilities, futures, purposes, while the delivery lad was patient; he probably deemed John as a slow thinker — which he wasn’t usually, and he hoped his pride would surface and make his tongue sharp once again. However now was the time to answer the man.

“I-don’t worry, it wasn’t a problem. We could have waited longer. And thanks.”

He didn't recall the long minutes he spent complaining earlier. 

John left his sentence in the silence of his chuckle. An uncomfortable atmosphere fell between them, on his doorstep. The delivery lad, of a name still unknown, was the one staring now; John noted it, because he was scrutinizing his every move. When these hazel eyes trailed down, then back up, and stopped at his face, John knew he wasn’t the only one feeling overwhelmed anymore. Because in the deaf silence of the hallway, there were only them, unmoving, staring, frozen in their own little space. The bag of wafting spices was long forgotten between them, and the hand holding it was relaxing its grip. It was fascinating to observe the man’s expression losing his professional charm; lips parted and brows furrowed, twitching hands, and a stare that never left him. John didn’t know how to interpret this intriguing moment; he felt his confidence climbing, and a smirk gracing his lips, as he was proud of getting such careful interest; one of his insecured inner voices kept reminding of his careless attire and his ridiculous behavior earlier, and halted him from seizing his chance. He could merely stare back. He didn’t complain about this.

“I’m Paul, Paul McCartney,” burst out the deliverer, snapping them out of their trance. They both blinked, That was his name then: Paul.

Paul coiled in embarrassment, for he flushed and chuckled as he shook his head. John only witnessed it in amusement.

“Sorry, it was unprofessional of me. It was a tiring day.”

"It's ok," a pause."You want to come in? Just to drop the bag and maybe have a glass of water or…"

"I'd love to."

They went inside, John in front guiding Paul to the kitchen. He was so pleased all of the sudden, the thrill going down to his fingertips; behind him was a tall handsome stranger, who was already a familiar friend, who was going to change his boring days. Frequently he was said to get excited and optimistic too fast about people, which was why he had armed himself with cynicism and irony; that delivery lad had disarmed him of his weapons, and his hopes were bare to the unknown amicable boy. As Paul lowered the bag on the kitchen table, he took a small sheet of paper with writings on it and started reading it as he unpacked its contents, while John filled him a glass.

"So, we have: many many papadums with four chutneys," a plate was put down with round crispy flatbreads with colourful bowls, next to the glass of water John had retrieved. "Two chicken Korma," the deliverer frowned at this; John didn't perceive why, as the plastic boxes filled with the meal smelled of stinging spicy creams mixed with a soft coconut aroma were put down. But the deliverer moved on. "And some jeera rice on the side. Is that correct?"

He was examined expectantly, John only nodded in return. Another smile. Paul was drinking his glass of water in one go. Then they stared. That was all. Stared at each other in a comfortable silence. John witnessed Paul's charming facade gradually fade, his features setting on a true curious face; his quirked up eyebrows, his mouth in a straight line, a question in his eyes. Yet nothing John could answer. The familiarity he felt with the gorgeous man struck him once again; either he was going to be more than just their delivery lad, or he would hunt his dreams for a long time. He knew under normal circumstances, Paul would have left by now — he wasn't supposed to even come inside — and go to another location, deliver something else; judging from the fact he had no other bags, it seemed he had no urgency to leave. Perhaps would it be too much but, seeing the attentive expression facing him, the deafening silence yet the warm atmosphere, he wanted to ask him to stay; he was willing to share his food with him, and this thought on his own was what made his eyebrows shoot up; he was falling for this unknown lad a bit too fast.

Excessively preoccupied with this realization and smiling dumbly at Paul, he didn't notice the fridge door opening and slamming closed — actually it didn't slam, but any small sounds were amplified when he was lost in his mind; startled, but he wasn't the only one for Paul sprang up too. They were snapped off their trance, by a humming Ringo fetching a can of soda. It was yet another time when John tried telepathy on Ringo to make him leave, but it didn't work. Ringo flanked his side. When he turned his head to look at Paul again, the familiarity was gone, replaced by the charming and professional expression that intimidated John.

"Hey! I'm Ringo, John's flatmate. You're the delivery boy?" 

Paul blinked, still not totally out of his intense eye staring he had had with John — well John believed this was the reason for him to blink, was it the truth he couldn't tell — and shook his head. He plastered a toothy smile on his face and answered.

"Yes it is me. I am sorry for the delay. We had an unforeseen busy night. As I said to John," did John really shiver at hearing his name pronounced by this melodious voice? Was his infatuation already that severe? "The meal is on us."

"It was no problem, don't worry. I just hope John didn't give you a hard time over this," he chuckled as he gave Paul a handshake, a tip probably hidden in his palm for him.

"No, don't worry," he let out a polite laugh, grasping the hand and nodding discreetly with thankful eyes. Without letting go of his hold, he paused and sent John a look. "He was lovely."

At this exact moment, John disintegrated. In his mind, there was a moment of silence, then filled with more and more hurried, incomplete and tangled thoughts and voices, all whispering the same shock and thrill.

John was an emotional man; things that were deemed meaningless for others were experienced ten times more in his head.

The dream disappeared when the deliverer went to speak.

"I'd best be on my way. There are many clients left at the restaurant and I'm still on duty. I hope you will enjoy your dinner!"

As Paul left the kitchen, John remained frozen. Was he really leaving? Ringo nudged him in his ribs, and it was like a signal for him to run to the door; what would he do there remained a mystery, but he needed to as much as he needed _Alice in Wonderland_ in his life. He scrambled to the entrance, where the deliverer had stopped. Hands in his hoodie pockets that John noticed with delight for he would have tried to snatch them if not. With the similar energy he had employed to catch up with him, he spat out a direct and quite brave sentence compared to his behaviour until now: 

"Will I see you again soon?"

This sounded extravagantly sappy and John innerly cringed. Yet, he mustered the most flirtatious look to hide his embarrassment: waving eyebrows, provocative smirk, narrowed eyes, combined with him leaning slightly forward. The only effect it had was making the younger lad raise his eyebrows and gave him a once-over in surprise. He gave a half-shrug as he straightened up.

"Well, you know, if you order from us again, normally yes?"

… that was disturbingly obvious.

"Oh, right…" John was absolutely not nailing this at all. He couldn't comprehend why his usual cockiness was absent, when it was critically essential now. "Maybe next time then?"

"I'd be glad to deliver a meal to you again."

John beamed. All of his fruitless attempts at looking flirtatious and relaxed were thrown away. Even if there was this tiny, little voice of doubt — it never lost a chance to destroy his hopes and make his insecurity worse — who shouted that Paul probably said this to all the restaurant's clients, he waved it off. These doubts were crushed with his new resolve: he would see him again. Would it go further than that he didn't know nor did he care.

They bid their farewell, and the source of his uselessness for the last 10 minutes was gone. Because let us be realistic, this exchange only lasted ten minutes; to John it lasted an hour. If he could draw it, he would use the biggest sheet of paper and put on the tiniest details; if he could write it, instead of doing it in a hundred words — which would have been enough to describe it all for anybody else — he would have written it in a thousand.

When he returned inside, going straight to the living room with a longing for a simple and regular delivery boy, he found Ringo sitting on the couch, with their meal opened and warmed up on the coffee table. He flopped down, some pillows softening his fall and looked to the ceiling, hands running through his hair. His robe was falling down from his shoulders. He heard Ringo chuckle next to him. Of course his flatmate knew he was crushing, and badly so — why would he have forced him to catch up with Paul earlier if not? Feeling an elbow touch his side, he glanced down to see Ringo's grin.

"I suppose you won't ruin their review section anymore?"

The question didn't require any answer, and John snorted. He hunched on himself, arms resting on his legs. He took one of the papadums, staring at it, not really wanting to eat it; he was still lost in his reverie.

"You really are infatuated already. God, I've never seen you being such a mess in front of someone," Ringo joked, enjoying this in his own gentle and warm way that John never minded. Moreover, he knew he had been an utter mess; until now, he had no clues as to why. "Not that the other was any better; you were both staring at each other in the kitchen for five minutes before noticing I was there."

"You were there the whole time?" he blurted out.

"Yep. Next time, please try not to crumble under his eyes."

They laughed at the banter. When John composed himself however, he bore a solemn expression. He looked at Ringo, determined and confident in what he had to say.

"Ringo, we're going to be ordering lots of Indian food from now on."

Eventually, they ate.

____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 1_ **


	2. Meat City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five days have passed since John saw Paul the deliverer. Today, he gets to order again. Unfortunately, there's no charming deliverer at the door... Why?  
> This is a completely stupid chapter, be warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left a comment last time, it means so much and I didn't expect such a great reception! I hope you all stick around with me on this long trip, and that we can keep communicating through comments. But I will leave you to read...

They were eating Indian again tonight, and John couldn't conceal his excitement.

Five days had passed since last Saturday when his eyes landed on the deliverer of the Indian restaurant "Hot Chillies". He had enjoyed the rest of the evening savouring their meal while dreaming of Paul. For the next few days, he begged Ringo to order Indian again, without much success; his flatmate hadn't really appreciated all the spices. But after much tiring repetitions and insisting, Ringo complied, under the condition that he wasn't forced to eat anything spicy. This had been enough to make an eternal grin appear on John’s face all day. He was impatient. But not overly so, for he had gathered something out of his previous encounter with the young lad: he had to be more confident, and if he couldn't be, he had to at least pretend to be. He had to reconnect with his armor of wit, his sarcastic charm, his quirky humor and his mask of assurance. John always relied on his personality and mind; the outside, what served as a shell to his extravagant self, was mostly despised. But from now on, he promised himself: there would be no more uncomfortable and clumsy John around Paul. That time was over.

He didn't know how to explain it; for the brief minutes he was honoured to spend in this deliverer's company, he had become enthralled with the young man. John knew he could become obsessed with people fast, but this felt different, for a connection had lingered between them, shy and tentative. If he persisted, this connection could become so much more. Words departed from him when he tried to comprehend his infatuation. But he had recognised the signs of an impending crush and was resolved in his quest to seek more of this Paul. Tonight, he would speak to him. He would get to know him more; witness his minor quirks, observe the way he grinned, take note to his reactions, make him explore the connection there could be. All of this thanks to an order for Indian food. If he knew his depressing life would be fixed with such an ordinary thing, he wouldn't have drowned himself in tears and tragic gay movies after his last break up; he would have directly ordered Indian food.

Hours had gone by, before they called the restaurant and ordered. Presently they were waiting. John didn't know where to put himself.

He was like a flea around Ringo in the flat. He kept moving around and around; from the sofa where he’d plop down, to lurking behind Ringo while he was patiently playing a game, then to his bedroom lying flat on his bed, then to the bathroom to inspect himself; he went through this all over again. Three times. Until Ringo got tired of it and interfered as he was once again looking at himself in the mirror with doubts clouding his features. But could he be blamed? He was reckless, needing to express his nerves; moving around like he was entrapped was a way to do it. Ringo sighed behind him.

"John, you look fine like always. Stop fussing around."

"Ringo we both know it ain't enough," John huffed out, slamming his hands flat on the wash basin and glaring at himself.

Because to John this was true, for he couldn't possibly believe he could seduce someone with his looks — eventually, his expressions could, as he trained himself to make weird faces in the mirror to cheer up, and they made others giggle: that was it. As he faced his reflection, he grew more convinced; his aquiline nose took too much place; his thin lips were wrinkled and dry; his eyes, squinting even with glasses, dull and normal in colours, narrow in shape; shaggy curling auburn hair. A squared jaw and angular cheekbones framed his unattractive portrait; pale was its dominant tone. Only freckles spread randomly on his cheeks were generating light to his aspect. Nothing else. Gradually his expression of anger was drowning into a pitiful despair. How could he make an impression on Paul with this face? He wished to create a better impression than the one he had to witness the first time he had come. Dressed impeccably, with a white shirt and trousers, a fitted classy jacket, round glasses on his noses, white converse — to be dressed impeccably meant dressed in white for John — it wasn't sufficient to hide the body he didn't like. But he stopped his train of thoughts, his eyes from trailing down, by sticking his tongue out and moving his eyebrows up and down. He snorted at his own silliness; at least he loved his mind.

He turned around to Ringo— a Hawaiian shirt on, typically Ringo — with his arms crossed.

"I'm not handsome Ringo," he said bluntly.

"You're more handsome than me."

"No I'm not!"

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm‐" the doorbell struck and interrupted them. John gasped, looking panicked for a second, about to ask Ringo what he should do; he remembered that he was supposed to be composed. Unluckily, Ringo caught his grimace.

"You really are crushing too hard already," he chuckled.

"That's because I feel more than you all," he huffed again. "Now, let me meet my future love."

He walked out of the bathroom, Ringo laughing behind him and sending him a warm "good luck", to wish he answered with a thumb up. As he walked farther away to his destination, he fidgeted with the collar of his jacket three times and ran his hands through his hair twice. In front of his hidden goal, he exhaled, checked his breath, plastered a smirk on his face and puffed out his chest in confidence. This time, Paul didn't know what was coming; this time he would be overpowered by John's simple aura, the same way John had been with him.

The moment he opened the door, the exhilaration he should have felt died down. Because there was no Paul. Instead, an imposter stood in Paul's rightful place. John’s whole face twisted, offended.

It was a lanky man, in beige flared trousers with food stains on it, wearing an apron showing myriad of sauces. A green shirt with a white Hindu symbol in the middle and a black and red light jacket, covered in shapes and patterns, different to the well assorted clothes his deliverer — Paul — had worn. He clutched a bag with both hands, in a strangling hold. It was not the bag that wafted a delicious aroma: the man himself smelt of stinging cutting spices, from the tip of his finger to his wavy mid length hair. John's nose crunched up. That dark mass of flowing hair was tainted with fainter colored shades, like powder of yellow and orange stuck in his hair. Eyes sharp of an uninviting brown, piercing his soul. Long thin nose, fitting his high cheekbones. Mouth in a straight line. All of this combined with a bored expression, reflecting in his relaxed pose. Twenty-ish. Radiating mystery and cleverness, but with a detached way in himself. He wasn't Paul. He was a cook, not a deliverer. The voices in his head screamed their disappointment and betrayal. The boy spoke with a marked accent and a long drawl.

"Are you John Lennon from Colquitt Street?"

"Yeah but you're not Paul McCartney from Hot Chillies," John answered bluntly. He experienced no shame. He was hunched and staring at the unexpected.

"That's a good observation," the imposter deadpanned. John already knew he wouldn't like him. "I'm George Harrison from Hot Chillies and am here with your order."

John only blinked dumbly. He couldn't believe it: the person he had been expecting all day had been taken away from him so harshly. With no warning. He had waited and prepared for this moment for the last five days, had been fed false hopes, and he was left with "George Harrrrrrrrrison" as a consolation gift; utterly disappointing.

"Why isn't Paul here?" John had to know, daring to show this stranger his croaky hurt voice.

"Why, you had a date with him?" The uncaring man replied with his monotonous voice, devoid of feelings and cutting him. He jerked away, heat climbing to his cheeks.

"That's none of your business!" .

Folding his arms, embarrassed and mad; the substitute deliverer raised an eyebrow at him, smirked, but didn't say a thing. Instead the lad moved on. The bag was passed, with no invites to come inside. George announced the price, 22.95. John paid, leaving no tip. He was infuriated; at Paul, at the restaurant, at Ringo who didn't want to order Indian sooner, but especially at the expressionless deliverer who kept on scrutinizing him even though he was supposed to be gone by now. That imposter. The lad never moved, only tilted his head. The atmosphere grew uncomfortable, making John's nerves drizzle. He didn't like that boy now it was certain; his eyes were depriving him off his closely guarded secrets, taking neither joy nor sadness in his actions; bushy eyebrows set in a perpetual frown were judging him of manners and features he couldn't mask. Yet he stayed strong under his judgement, not backing down, his jaw set, his figure tall.

Until the lad talked after such a long silence.

"Did you order anything with meat?"

John was taken aback, blinking at the request. He hadn't expected that kind of judgement. It didn't suppress his annoyance.

"Why is it forbidden now?" he deadpanned back. George wasn't affected.

"No, but Paul won't deliver anything with meat in it; he is a vegetarian."

“What?” this time it did suppress his annoyance, for he took a step back, eyes round at the impossible news. His shock was short-lived, as he snarled and pointed at him. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?" the lad only shook his head, mouth in a straight line once again. “Then why did he come to deliver here the first time?”

“Because he probably didn’t know, that’s all,” the logic of this statement was so fucking obvious the cook dared to shrug in front of John, making him grit his teeth harder.“I’ve been working with him for a long time, and I’m telling ya, he doesn’t. He leaves them for the other deliverer to do it.”

John wasn’t convinced. This was unreasonable. Illogical. Absurdly bad for business.

Then flashed a picture of Paul frowning as he had unpacked his order last time and saw chicken korma. The slight shiver of disgust. What if there had been disappointment in those doe eyes?

Suddenly John wasn’t so unconvinced.

“And why are you here then?” he shot in a half attempt at appearing strong, as if until now he had the upper-hand in this conversation — if he ever had it to begin with.

“Our other deliverer was already on something else, so I replaced him while on shift. I’m the chef ya see. And since Paul looked so disappointed when he saw someone ordering something with meat in it again...”

An uncalled for wave of guilt defeated him, something he had never thought he’d feel for having ordered meat. He didn’t know if Paul deliberately didn't come because of his order, but he felt like a weight had settled in his stomach at the thought of disheartening him. The cook remarked: a hand was on his shoulder, but John swiped it away. Unnerving man, either blank or sneering like the secret demons of John’s mind. He was smirking widely, showing sharp fangs, adding to his malign aura. John’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know if I should believe you. You look too happy, it doesn’t suit you,” George’s smirk was wiped off his face. Yet, it didn’t feel like a victory, even though he couldn’t help but raise his chin in pride; George was perfectly neutral.

“Believe me or not, I don’t care. I’m not the one who wants to see Paul again, I see him every day,” he rolled his shoulders, while John internally winced at the sting. “I’m just telling ya, if you had ordered vegetarian, you’d be having your date right now. You do whatever you want with that information.”

He turned around, not giving John the time to answer. With a final wave, he threw a nonchalant “see ya,” and he was gone through the long corridors of their building. John despised him.

With heavy steps he retreated inside, slamming the door close, and passing Ringo without acknowledging him. The couch seemed so inviting to cry about his overly dramatic despair. He slumped on it, face landing flat on a blue pillow. Gone were the dreams of love with the beautiful delivery lad of Hot Chillies; they were replaced by the monotonous rude and unclean cook, haunting him with his smirk and expressionless eyes. The bag of Indian food at the feet of the couch was a painful reminder of his wrong doing; why didn't he order vegetarian food? Because he didn't doubt it anymore; Paul didn't come because he had ordered something with meat in it, betraying his values; he believed it, for he couldn't fathom another reason, unless he wished to plunge into the buried insecurities of his own self. However, he felt miserable enough and avoided this choice. Head down, hiding his shame, he didn't look at Ringo behind him, yet had not jumped when his hand rested on his back. He only turned to watch him; curious blue eyes, brows creased in concern.

"Paul wasn't here," he said with a charged sigh. Ringo pressed him to elaborate. "The cook, who delivered our order instead, said Paul only delivered vegetarian dishes." Ringo seemed sceptical, halting the steady comforting strokes between his shoulder blades. John's lips faintly curved up. "I know it sounds stupid. But he was so sure of himself. And if I don't believe him, what other reasons did he have not to come?" John knew there could be many other reasons, yet he couldn't stop himself from spiralling down."He probably was revolted with me, or I creeped him out with me staring or- I don't know…" he trailed off, as he noticed his voice had gotten higher in pitch the more he had hurried himself to conclude his speech. He lowered his head back to his pillow.

"Then tomorrow," Ringo started, hand in a determined fist on his back. "We're ordering again, and this time vegetarian."

John lifted himself up abruptly, knocking his hand out of the way.

"Really? So soon? But Ringo-"

"No but!" His flatmate stood up. "I made you wait for five days before accepting to order again, because I wanted you to be composed and confident before meeting him again. And when I finally say yes, he's not here! It's unfair to our patience. So tomorrow we're ordering, and he best be there!" he ended, clenched fist to his chest, determined above John's eyes.

John was left with no word. A rush of gratitude coursed through his veins, squeezing his heart, and without getting up, he hugged Ringo's legs, beaming. The other lad chuckled, humoured by John's antics. John didn't know what he'd do without Ringo's understanding and patience with him.

But he had to let him go.

Ringo took the bag and placed it on the coffee table, slowly unpacking their order. As he was doing so, he asked a final question.

"By the way, how was the other guy like?"

John's smile declined a bit at the memory of the rude kid. He glowered and spat:

"He was a prick."

***

The next day they were waiting once again. It was a frigid Friday night that had followed a gloomy dull day. It had been quiet at his job. He worked at the Central Library of Liverpool, surrounded by books he cherished, but had no time to read; so many books, yet so little time. When he came home, he had slumped on the couch — his favorite place in this flat — where Ringo joined him shortly after he came home from work. They had phoned the Indian restaurant — unfortunately they never fell on Paul — and ordered their vegetarian set: 2 Papadoms & chutney, onion bhaji, aloo chat, balti spinach with aloo, vegetable karahi, large vegetable pilau rice & naan. They dubbed it their “special vegetarian offer”, for the price of £17.. It would arrive in an hour; time to dress smartly once again and wait patiently in hope of Paul coming soon. However, John was not so nervous; he felt more at peace, collected, composed; never fully, but enough to control his voice and hands, which reassured him greatly for when Paul would be here. It was a matter of mere minutes before this moment arrived, when he would know if George had been honest, and Paul only delivered vegetarian dishes; or if Paul wasn't here, and George had lied, and Paul never wanted to see him again.

Once again, the deafening sound of their bell resonated in the living room, and John jumped out of his seat. Ringo proceeded to leave to his room, sending a thumb up to him in encouragement, to which John nodded. In a haste, he walked to the front door, not hesitating to open it, and his eyes were greeted by the smile from the being he had been impatient to see: Paul.

He was here. Still dressed in his black Bowie sweater, tight ebony jeans and white sneakers, he looked the same. Ruffled jet black hair, button nose, sparkling hazel eyes, he remained unchanged. Except for one thing, that was so different and heart warming it was significant to mention it: the moment Paul's doe eyes met his, his arched brows rose, his lush lips twitched, and a dazzling grin spread on his face; John melted at the sight. Nonetheless, he was unprepared for the excited sentence composed of delighted words that would leave these heart-shaped mouth and crash onto him:

"Hi! John Lennon from Colquitt street right? You ordered from us again, that's great! I'm happy to see you again."

… John was blown away. He blinked stupidly. Paul recalled his name.

But this was an overly excited reaction for nothing and he shook himself off his stupor to smirk and greeted the deliverer as if he was humouring him. Slightly leaning on the door frame, he looked him up and down, approving the view; the other didn't squirm away, but didn't react in any way. Not even did he flinch or flush as John answered in the huskiest voice he could muster:

"The pleasure is shared, Paul…" he drew out the name, but nothing happened. Not even a slight blush nor a flicker of an eye; a professional charming smile, with a thrilled behavior; as if Paul was with one of his favourite clients, and that was the problem: he was a client. While John had learned from their previous encounter to be bolder and more confident, it seemed Paul had learned to be even more in control of himself than he already was. John had judged him well: that deliverer had regretted his slip up in his professional mask the last time. He deemed him as a man who needed to control himself with plastic emotions and charming ease. However, John had also noticed his barely hidden enthusiasm when he found John; the mask wasn't solid in front of him; it cracked. John needed to be cautious yet remain confident and hopeful; perhaps he would become more than an ordinary client.

This scheme was made inside John's head, veiled to Paul, and that is why the deliverer's carefree tone contrasted beautifully with his roguish analysis.

"Should I put this inside then?" he pointed to the paper bag he held.

"I'd be grateful if you did. Follow me," he turned around with an exaggerated roll of his hips and a swift wave of his hand, making himself radiate with self-assurance. Paul's footsteps followed him closer than the last time, but they maintained a consistent rhythm, in tune with his.

In his head, John was thanking George. After all the insults and vile words he had thought of when the cook had left the day before, it had been uncalled for, for George had been right. Paul had come, because John ordered vegetarian.

There were no Ringo in the kitchen, John suppressing a sigh of relief. Gesturing to the table, he grasped a glass and filled it with water, just like he had done the previous time. When he pivoted, expecting to see Paul unloading the bag on the kitchen table like he had done last time, he was momentarily caught off guard by the contrary; he was immobile, the bag forgotten on the table. Paul was staring. He had been staring. Staring down, at a certain part of his lower body. He couldn’t have been staring there; could he be staring there? no, his thighs were too fat for such a lovely being; but maybe his… John flushed at the possibility, giving enough time for Paul to shift his gaze, and grin as if there was nothing wrong. He clapped his hand together:

“So, let’s see what you got, hum?”

Unbelievable. If John was right, and the lad had been staring at his thighs — and probably more than these but John couldn't believe that — then slipped back on his charming mask normally while John remained flustered, that meant he was facing peak professionalism; the ability to cover any professional mistakes by smoothing them over with a fascinating easiness and delightful politeness. Bursting that professional shell appeared to be more complicated than expected.

Signalling to Paul to go on, as he offered him his glass of water, Paul repeated the same procedure: as he took out each item, he said their names and put them on the tables. However, around the third box, his eyes widened. Eagerly, he emptied the bag faster, naming the dishes quicker, grinning bigger; till there was nothing left, and his eyes were twinkling as he was looking at the contents displayed on the table. He lifted his head up, beamed at John, with a joy that didn't have to say its name.

"You changed it! You ordered our vegetarian set this time!"

He looked euphoric; which was too much for someone who was supposed to know what John ordered. Suspicion creeped to his mind, but it was hard to focus in the face of an overjoyed Paul.

“But don’t you-,” he was interrupted with Paul patting his shoulder, even though they were separated by the table.

“That’s great you know. I’m a vegetarian myself, and I’m always happy when people try at least one vegetarian meal a week,” his eyes were still twinkling, as he gave a half-shrug. “It’s not much, of course. But any small step is a step forward. Thank you, John.”

Gone were the suspicions as these words reached his ears, replaced with a deep sense of satisfaction. Paul’s face had been lightened up, and it was thanks to John. At this moment John knew he had won an humble part of Paul's esteem; he went from a random client to the official vegetarian client, that Paul would frequently meet from now on. He returned his smile, a bit sheepish on the inside, but confident on the outside, hands tucked in his pockets. Although, he didn't know what to answer; what was there to say when he was swelling with smugness? Hence Paul talked instead, as he folded the paper bag to lay it flat.

“You’re the only vegetarian delivery I did tonight you know?”

His smugness cracked.

"Wait what?" his hands flew away from his pockets.

"What, what?" Paul's mouth fell open in a small "O". John tried regaining his composure, vainly taming his rising anger; the suspicions had jumped back up.

"Don't you deliver vegetarian orders only?"

They were wearing the same confused gaze now.

"... No? That wouldn't be really professional." Of course it wouldn't be, John knew it. The cook had lied; he had hidden the truth from him, played him; his name was added to the list of persons John hated.

"Then why weren't you here yesterday?"

"Excuse me?

"We already ordered something yesterday, but you didn't come," John clarified."Instead, it was a rude Hindu Hippie, telling us you refused to deliver dishes with meat."

He realized his explanation probably sounded ridiculous; not to Paul.

"Oh, I understand now," he chuckled, the sound pleasant but what it implied irritating. “George pranked you too I see. He loves doing that to persuade people to eat vegetarian,” however Paul pursed his lips after that, pensive. “But usually he doesn’t use me as a pretext… Did you really order vegetarian because you wished for me to be your deliverer?”

John flushed. No witty jokes or flirtatious excuses came to his mind, and therefore he was left bare, only muttering an embarrassed; “yeah…” to which Paul didn’t react. At a loss for words for a moment, Paul only gazed away. Foolishly, John convinced himself that this wasn’t such an undesirable situation; the deliverer knew John wished to see him more and more; without being sure that John was horribly crushing him — this kind of behavior should be forbidden for a 25 years old serious and intellectual man like him. Yet this was another disillusion, for he had underestimated Paul’s way to interpret things:

“That must mean you really liked my service last time!”

...Oh my god John was really encountering the most imperturbable professional man ever. Last time Paul came late, the food was cold, and they kept staring at each other for hours! Yes, he had been charming, courteous and polite, captured John’s heart in an instant, but that wasn’t his service that made him want to see him again! If only he could facepalm right now. Trying to brush off his disappointment, he crossed his arms again and asked.

“So what was the real reason you weren’t here yesterday?”

“Because I’m not on delivery service on Thursday. That’s all,” Paul shrugged, and John began to think this was a habit of his. Paul proceeded to elaborate. “We shift between delivery and catering. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I’m the waiter, and then the rest of the week, I deliver. And Monday we're closed. So yesterday you know, I didn’t come here because it was my colleague who was on delivery. And George probably took over some deliveries, including yours, because we had too many at the same time.”

At the end of the explanation, John had only remembered two things: one, Paul was gorgeous when he spoke for a long time; he’d make many hand gestures, would look you straight in the eyes, and his hair would move with his words; second, Paul couldn’t always come to his place. It was another difficulty; not a critical one, but one he would have to remember, or else he incurred the risk of dealing with that rude chef. If he wanted to gain the young man’s heart, he would need to put on more efforts. Resting his hands on the table, he leant forward, closer to the man across from him.

"Can you repeat that part about the days when you deliver so I remember it?" he said with a faint smile, gazing at his eyes from above his glasses.

"You know John, the other deliverer is good too.”

"He never could be as good as you Paulie," he winked. He dared to do this. And he was awarded with the first time Paul actually responded to his flirting: he reddened, taken aback. That slight break meant so much he was dancing inside, the voices in his head acclaiming him and congratulating him — which was rare, usually they belittled him. Paul shook his head, straightening, to conceal the shyness he had felt for a second of his life. However, when he looked at John again, he seemed collected but amused.

“You’re a nice guy John. I’m going to add you to my favorite clients list,” and he fetched a small worn out notebook — John noticed the roughened corners and pages pushing past the size of the book, as if they had been added to it — from his sweater pocket, a pencil, and scribbled something. John couldn’t believe he was really doing that. So when he was done, John asked him if he had been serious; Paul showed him the page of the notebook he had just written into. Undoubtedly here it was inscribed: underlined was “Favorite clients”, and under it, one single name and address: his name and his address.

“... Well, that’s a short list,” Paul snorted at his remark, putting away his notebook; a pinch of regret, for John had wished to see more of that old notebook, that probably held the secret to Paul’s heart. But it wasn’t so bad; John still felt as if he had made a tiny breach in the awkward atmosphere that wholly engulfed them before. The ridiculousness of George’s lie still sent him reeling, but in a way, it had brought them closer; as if the humour overpowered the stupidity of it all — don’t get him wrong however, he would never forgive that chef. The exchange that followed was warmer; Paul seemed at ease, repeating the days he was here, and John hadn’t frozen, stayed unmoving and unresponsive like a dumb lad for a long period of time.

It’d barely registered in his mind that Paul would have to go at one point, back to the restaurant, back to delivering, away from him; Ringo reminded him of that, for he was finally leaving his room and joining them in the kitchen. As he did last time, he greeted Paul, paid him, with a tip from John, and then Paul said he had to go.

One thing changed: Paul waited for John to accompany him to the door. That was how John interpreted it, others would think otherwise; but when Paul had turned around, stepped forward, then stopped to glance back at John, it was a sign that Paul waited for him. Therefore, John rushed to his side, and they went to the front door together. Yet John thought he could push his flirting further, with a slight bit of gallantry; he opened the door for the deliverer, bowing; he didn’t realize this might be too much. As he stepped out, the delivery lad didn’t know what to say. The dreaded uncomfortable silence John had desperately tried to avoid fell between them, and John cursed himself for ruining this; it had been good up until now. Paul looked down, stuttering a bit, not making his goodbye come out well, and John wasn’t faring any better, scratching the back of his neck while still holding the door. Brilliant John. He’d have to struggle again next time to avoid that awkwardness; he needed to know more about the man, so they would always be familiar and at ease.

“W-well," Paul ultimately managed to pronounce, but that was all he expressed. John suddenly had an idea; a not-so-great one, but at this point he judged it couldn’t get any more awkward than that. So he went with his idea. Grabbing the deliverer's arm, he captured his attention.

“Hey, next time I’m ordering to your place, can you be the one to pick up the phone?”

With an intense stare, he pinned down Paul, leaving him with no choice; if he didn’t accept, John’s trembling lips would start to beg, and they both preferred to prevent that. Mouth still slightly open, Paul nodded.

“I- well I can try.”

That was all it took, and John let him go. Paul departed, a confused flush on his face, and John hoped everything he had done had finally been enough to create an impression on Paul; oh, he didn’t want him to fall in love with him. Paul was free to feel as he wished; but he had wished to display the depth of his sincere heart, and make him understand that this was only the beginning, if Paul wished to go further; the fact he didn’t refuse his last suggestion was already a huge step. John wanted to be equally respectful to Paul, for he knew the lad could conceal himself behind his charming yet composed and cold professional mask at any action that might feel unprofessional; he didn’t want that.

As he watched him turn around in the corridor, escaping his sight, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Ringo was behind him, his open expression content, but a little playful.

“Next time, don’t wait for me to pay again.”

____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 2_ **

_(~5400 words)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading ^^ as always, don't hesitate to drop a comment, or if you don't have the time a lil kudo.  
> I'll see you next time, but until then, have a great day/night !


	3. Don't Let Me Wait Too Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Paul is waiting for John's phone call safely inside, away from the storm, George gives him a warning: "do not put your job at risk because of John".
> 
> Only the delivery service of tonight will tell us if he listened to him or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I updated earlier, because right now times are rough so I wanted to cheer myself up, and cheer you all up. This is a rather sweet chapter AND ALSO! I forgot to mention!!! There will be different point of views in the fic, and here you get Paul's ^^  
> Enjoy !  
> Edit: I forgot with the rush, but thanks to everyone who left a comment on the last chapter: you guys really reminded me of why I was writing. So thank you ♥

It was another Friday cold evening, and from the windows of their restaurant they could observe lightning colliding with a wild wind and violent drops of water. It was a vicious storm, one you'd get occasionally in May, but Paul didn’t worry, for he was inside, patiently waiting for the phone to ring, since the early afternoon to now. He could have left, for he was delivering tonight and had the afternoon to prepare or chat; yet he stayed, for this call.

Arms on the dark counter in the entrance of the restaurant, where they welcomed customers or gave them their orders, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes gazing at the black phone, awaiting a phone call. Dressed in his usual skinny black jeans hidden by the counter, but a pale buttoned shirt, he was supposed to greet the first clients that had just passed their wide glazed doors. Yet they had stood there, waiting for a reaction that never came. Instead, the lad sighed longingly to the phone, leaning further down.

Fortunately, the commotion was avoided, for George was quick to see the action through the opening in the wall that made the entrance visible to the kitchen, and stride to the door to join Paul’s side, greeting the customers for him. With his blunt tone leaving no possibility to complain, the couple huffed and walked to the main restaurant room. Jimmy, their waiter, a lanky brunette, rushed to them. But Paul hadn't cared in the slightest. He was waiting: it had been a whole week since he had been promised a call that he still didn’t get. On this day, with the elements of earth roaring on their doorstep, he was particularly disheartened about it.

“Paul, move it. You’re on delivery shift in thirty minutes.”

That was true, he was. The service always started a little earlier so George could fill in the first orders and the deliverer of the night could get prepared. But he didn’t make himself move. He knew George had not headed back and was judging him silently under his hairy brows; he couldn’t care. When George walked back to him and shook his shoulders, he didn’t move.

His friend sighed.

“Is it really about that phone call again?”

Paul’s eyes narrowed and he abruptly straightened, hands slapping the counter.

“Of course it is!” he puffed out. “John said he would call, but it’s been a whole week since I’ve waited and he hasn’t…”

George scoffed next to him; he didn’t add anything. What was there to add? They might have lost a faithful client, and Paul couldn’t help but feel dread. He had only seen John twice in this lifetime, and it had been enough to intrigue Paul. While he had mixed feelings about the odd stares the client had sent him, or his shifting mood that made him quite unpredictable to Paul — one moment he looked like the most arrogant and self-assured man of whole Liverpool, then the next he couldn’t make one complete sentence and his eyes were clouded with doubts — he wanted to see him again. Or was he imagining this? What was John to Paul? Nothing but a customer who had enjoyed his meal from their restaurant the first time he ordered and therefore decided to order again; that was all; his choice to replace his order for a vegetarian set just so he could see Paul again was perfect client behavior. Now that he thought of it, all of their clients were peculiar. To begin with, it was an Indian restaurant, yet many complained there were no beef on the menu — George always wanted to slap their mouth shut but Paul was there to stop him. Next, practically none of them gave their vegetarian set a try; sporadically some ordered it, but never again.

A suggestion entered his mind.

“Oh! What if he didn’t like the vegetarian set? Or the way I delivered last time?” Paul said. George sent another one of his look that meant he was done with him; Paul was too used to them for them to faze him.“Or maybe it’s because I kinda fucked it last time when we said our goodbye…”he trailed on, leaning once again and a closed fist supporting his chin. “That’s too bad cause he seemed to become a faithful client and he gave great tips and the restaurant needs it and-”

“That’s not the only reason you have been waiting for that phone call now, is it?”

Paul stopped. He slowly turned his face to him. A long look went on.

“... Well, you know that would be unprofessional George.”

George scoffed once again. “Paul, the lad has the hots for you, it’s bloody obvious.”

But he ignored him. Paul didn’t want to go on that path; he knew where it laid and he couldn’t afford it. John was a client: he had to remain his simple deliverer.

Nonetheless, Paul couldn’t refrain himself; as he gazed at the unmoving silent phone, his mind drifted back to John. He could distinguish him clearly now, the image of the first time he had seen him ingrained in his brain: tall as him, wearing a floral dressing gown that flowed like a cape around him; a simple white tank top fitting to his taut chest and soft abdomen; calloused hands; thick thighs in black joggers; skin naturally tanned; auburn tangled hair; shoulders that were peeking out of the gown’s sleeves; a body firm and imposing, angry and fiery. However, his face had caught his attention, for it wasn’t reflecting the same fierceness; the face was on guard, hidden, masked by a squared closed jaw, tightly sealed smirking thin lips, and furrowed brows, with an aquiline nose that Paul had secretly admired when he caught his profile view, but his eyes weren’t fitting this. They were small, almond-shaped, insecure and vulnerable behind round glasses; chestnut colored, twinkling, rather light; they represented the opened windows to his emotions, and while John seemed to express his feelings honestly, his eyes revealed much more than his words could ever dream of saying. They were magnificent. Caught him in their trap of vividness in spite of the faint shadows under them, that only added a sense of tired contentment to the aura. Add to this the way he carried himself around, how each movement seemed to flow into the other with his black robe following each of them graciously, his natural goofiness, his nasal voice that broke, snorted or quivered, saying so much more than Paul could. He was pulling him in somehow. The man was captivating, for the lack of a better word to truly convey what he suggested, but a song might have said it better. However, he didn’t deem his reaction surprising; he was convinced it was a natural pull, that everybody certainly felt in his presence. He was just a client.

“I don’t like him.”

Except George of course; he wouldn’t feel the pull. Paul laughed; his friend never changed. He pushed himself off the counter, observing him with fondness: George smirked in return.

“Of course you wouldn’t like him. I can count on one hand the number of people you like!”

George snickered as he brushed his hands on his dirty apron, already covered in sauce when the service hadn't started. His messy hair was sticking out in every direction, and he was sweating from the heat coming from the kitchen. But he looked content.

“You really have to go out and meet some new people one day George. You know it would do you good,” he offered, as he played with the cash register, estimating what they had left.

“Yeah, but I’m quite happy alone. Besides if it’s to meet people like that John…” his voice disappeared in a thought, and Paul raised an eyebrow at him, waiting what judgement was to come out of his best, and only, friend’s mouth. A minute to find his words, George settled with a neutral: “He seems like bad trouble to me.”

Paul snorted. Alright John had a sort of sarcastic aura and a bold stance, but in reality he was just a soft lad who was thoroughly nice with Paul. That was all.

“Paul, I’m serious,” George said in a firmer tone. “You know this job is important for you.”

The atmosphere had gotten colder as the words escaped his mouth. Paul felt a shiver down his spine. Such subjects were rarely mentioned; Paul didn’t like it; because everything was fine. He had a job, a house, a loving family, a great friend; some had none of these.

Before he could reply, the phone rang. It rang one time; Paul didn’t move, and his mouth snapped shut. It rang a second time; George blinked at it dumbly. At the third ring they both jumped on the phone and screamed “Hello??”. Paul glared at George and the chef let go, moving back. But Paul hadn’t paid attention to the voice in that instant; to the soft nasal and hopeful voice that had murmured his name. When he was done glaring at the chef, Paul excused himself, and asked for the person to repeat themselves. The voice didn’t escape him this second time.

_“Paul? Is that you?”_

Paul gasped, tensed, jerking his head in George’s direction, noting his unsurprised face, and then ran a hand through his hair as he answered: “John?”

_“Are you busy? I can call another time-”_

“No no! Don’t worry!” the hand in his hair flew forward, waving to nobody. The sight weirded out the new customer that had entered the restaurant, and he was going to return back to the rainy outside, not wanting to understand what was going on. George was on his side swiftly, welcoming him with his gruff tone and directing him to the lanky 19 years old waiter once again. Then he went to his spot, back on the wall, close to the kitchen door in case his kitchen help, Jacob, might need his assistance. He whispered a harsh “stay professional” to Paul, and the deliverer nodded, ceasing his movements and making himself presentable.

“So, what would you like for tonight John- I mean Mr. Lennon?”

_“You."_

Paul paused, his brows knitted in confusion. On the counter there was a notepad and a pencil that he drew to his lips.

“Well yeah, I’m on delivery shift tonight, so I’ll be there. But what do you want to eat?”

He could hear some snigger behind him, and mouthed “what?” to George. The chef mouthed back “not that professional!”. With a roll of his eyes, he waited for John to answer; only stumbled words reached his ears, and he didn’t understand why. A pleasant client he was, but also a bit slow.

_“I- er, well then,”_ seriously this made no sense to Paul. _“Two vegetarian sets, like last time?”_

“You liked it?” his mood had jumped up with hope at the sentence, the pencil moving to write on the notepad.

_“It was bloody delicious. Even Ringo liked it!”_

“I’m glad,” he smiled, eyes gazing down at the paper; he drew a happy smiley on it. “I’ll be there at 9 if that’s ok?”

_“Of course,”_ he paused. With a murmur, he said: _“I’ll be ready for you.”_

John hung up. Paul was left to wonder if even on the phone the client was weird. Shrugging it away, he exchanged the note to George, who observed it and nodded his approval; it was rare enough to mention it. Paul smirked, thinking for an instant that George secretly appreciated the man. A scoff was his answer.

“Yeah well don’t take too long with this one. I’d rather not have to deliver to some bloke with a crush on you cause you’re late again.”

With that concluding statement, he departed to his kitchen. Paul didn't give much attention to it. Once again he propped his chin on his palm and sighed dreamily; in two hours or so, he would be at the charismatic young lad's doorstep, with a fresh meal and a charming smile. There was a certain thrill about this; he didn't know what to expect this time. Not like he had known before. Whether bad or not, surprising or not, flattering or not, he'd try to be ready to face whatever John would show him. With every visit, he would discover more about this Lennon client, until he'd know him so well he could predict when the man would order, what he would order, and his favourite dessert, that he'd give him as a surprise for every delivery.

That was, of course, if that client was predictable or not.

*** 

He arrived at John's door exhausted: his sweater soaking wet, his bangs dripping on his face, his nose sniffling, and his freezing shaking hands clutching the paper bag tightly to his chest. Tonight had been awful. 

He had started the delivery service at 6.30, quite glad that this evening seemed to be a light service for he only had 7 orders planned. While others might arrive later, he doubted it would be more. However his joy was short-lived, for when he opened the door with his first order of the night, a pouring rain and slashing wind slapped him back inside, doors slamming close. This little inconvenience didn't deter him in the slightest; he rather enjoyed rain, soothing his nerves and calming life around him. His smile stayed put, and he had passed the doors in a stride, running to his bicycle to make himself laugh — if he didn't make himself laugh, life would be boring and miserable. Hoodie on, Bowie's pale face already glistening from the drops of rain, he headed with his first order — not vegetarian — to his destination. Reaching Egerton Street, the rain somehow turned out to be worse, and a storm started to form above his head: clouds were piling up in the sky, thunder was roaring beyond the horizon, and the Georgian Quarter he had left was getting crowded with cars and shouts. Tonight, it was as if the planet and the whole city of Liverpool were determined to cease his cheering. But he paid them no mind, he was as determined as them to do his job well; tonight, or any other stormy night, wouldn't stop him. After leaving the bag at his first destination, he cycled back to the restaurant; only ten minutes. If he was fast like this, he'd have no trouble ending his shift before getting completely soaked. 

Unfortunately, once returned to the restaurant, the number of orders passed from six to thirteen, then thirteen to twenty two; most of them between 8 and 9 o'clock. He cycled smoothly through the ten first orders, passing by the Georgian Quarter once again, taking upper Parliament Street many times, having to cycle for one minute to reach Chinatown. Then it was 7:50, and the first difficulty started when he had to reach Dingle and Sefton Park, with six different paper bags piled up in his bicycle basket, with lightning hitting the pavement on the way. The roads were wet, and it took him 20 minutes to reach them, instead of his usual 15 minutes. It was long and harsh, and he wondered once again why did his boss accept orders coming from so far — one time it had been worse, he heard he was supposed to cycle to Menlove Avenue which was a 30 minutes ride, and he had to insist three times that this was too far. The last five orders before John's became six, that he had to deliver between 8:25 and 9, around Ropewalks, the Docks, Islington, and worst of all West Derby Street; the last was always crowded, jammed, irritating and dangerous with ambulances rushing in and out of the hospital in the street. Through all of this he was often forced to stop his ride and wait, under the heavy rain, for the traffic to start again. During these numerous moments he felt every drop of water falling on his nose. His hoodie no longer protected him from the rain, for it was so wet it was weighing on his head. Every so often he missed the sounds of cars and motorbikes because he couldn't hear anything with the thunders. The roads were slippery, making him lose his balance in the middle of the streets. He travelled through all of Liverpool that night, regretting times and times again his lack of dry and warm clothes. In the end, he was 20 minutes late on the schedule, and frustrated clients started to pester him. It happened three times. Yet, his charming mask and, as always, impeccable professionalism never left him; he was freezing, but with a smile, and it made all the difference. Shaking all over, it was okay, because he could receive a few thanks and encouragement for the rest of the night. It could have been worse — it could always get worse, for he was convinced the "worst" could never be reached. 

Finally it had been John's order: the last one for tonight, unless someone called. It was already 9:21, and he was supposed to deliver it at nine. A bit problematic, but he had grabbed a few Mudaks — dumplings stuffed with coconut and jaggery — back at the restaurant, and he hoped to be forgiven with this free dessert. Unfortunately, when he had stepped foot outside again, a wave of cold water mixed with sticky mud crashed on his skinny black jeans, due to a careless car zooming in front of him. Drivers were egotistical and uncaring. He was now officially drenched to the skin. It didn't stop him. He was determined not to lose his smile. He had cycled from Berry Street up to Seel Street, and was then in Colquitt Street; he was lucky the place wasn't far from the restaurant. Rushing inside, waiting for an elevator that never worked, next climbing the stairs for five floors, that's when he finally arrived, in front of John's doorstep, after all of this. He knew he looked horrible, poorly presentable, but the food was safe, and he hoped for it to counterbalance his lack of professionalism and his delay of twenty-five minutes. Ragged breathings. Trying to straighten himself. His limbs were still shaking from the cold. 

He rang the doorbell. 

The door didn't open a minute after. Water drops were sliding down his neck from his curling strands of hair. He took his hoodie off; he regretted it when he felt its frigid weight setting on his shoulders. God, they were in the beginning of May and he was sure to have a cold now. Complaining wouldn't fix his impending sickness. Nonetheless he wished it wouldn't get in the way of his work. As long as he wouldn't sneeze on his client, he would be alright. As long as he could wake up the day after, refreshed, he could work. 

Hurried steps made their way to the door, and he turned his head to face the noise. With droopy eyes and a running nose, he tried to look better, in vain. For John opened the door, and the smirk he wore vanished for a concerned frown. 

"Paul?" 

Once again, he was caught off guard by his client's handsomeness. From his toes to his hair, he was gorgeous, and in this moment after such a long and hard and freezing delivery service, he seemed to be glowing, radiating a comfortable warmth and a promise of care Paul wanted to sink in. Oh how could he describe him when words were failing him? How could he manage to form a single coherent thought in his frozen brain? With the light coming from inside the flat, the man wasn't imposing, nor intimidating, but inviting. He wore a beige knitted cardigan reaching thighs clothed in brown straight trousers and covering another white tank top. His feet were in fuzzy white sockets, warmer than Paul's. Hanging on his neck was a long string necklace with a peace symbol falling between his pecs; Paul gave it a long and longing look. Comfy in his clothes, his hair fitted perfectly to them, their auburn shades clearer with the light of the flat, framing his square and strong jaw with their long curves. His aquiline nose supported the round glasses that Paul had now deemed as John's trademark, and behind them, worried chestnut eyes, gleaming, peering under furrowed brows and above pouting tight lips. Somehow he was so glad to have arrived here, to be greeted by such a sight after this stormy service, that for a moment he lost his professional composure and smiled dreamily, gazing at John, mesmerized. He almost immediately relaxed. His shoulders slumped forward and he looked ready to collapse.

"Paul! What happened?" John asked frantically, throwing his hands on his shoulders and shaking them slightly. Paul internally winced at the touch, hoping his client's hands wouldn't get too wet gripping his hoodie. He shivered.

"Don't worry Mr. Lennon," he said, voice trying to gain its strength back. "The storm wasn't as hard as it looked, I just cycled through it and- Achoo!" he sneezed in the middle of his explanation, momentarily losing his balance; the hands on his shoulders moved to his waist, steadying him. What a thoughtful client he had; he really hoped not to disappoint him. With a proud smile, he lifted the bag up through blurry eyes. "Your meal is saved!" 

John just stared at him, not answering. The hold in his waist didn't weaken. His hands were hot, hotter than his. After an instant where he gave him an once-over, observing and grimacing at what he was facing — Paul knew he looked like a mess, and he hated it — John made his resolve.

"Ok you're coming inside and you're not leaving till you're warmer." With that statement he pulled him inside the flat, closing the door and hastening him inside the living room. "Ringo!" His flatmate's head appeared from a room. "Bring a towel!" 

When he was inside, John let go of him, and told him "Don't move, I'll bring you some dry clothes that you'll bring back next time." And he left without giving Paul a chance to object. Whispering a pathetic "but what about me service?"; no one heard it. He was left in the living room, observing his surroundings. 

He had never given it much attention before, he always went directly to the kitchen. The spacious room had a dark grey couch that propped up an army of cushions of colors ranging from red to purple. On a coffee table, he let go of his bag. From the far wall, numerous windows were submerged by the drops of rain; Liverpool was pale and sad under the raging clouds. Before he turned around to look at the other side of the room, Ringo, John's flatmate, came in with a plush towel. He took it gratefully, drying his hair and face, then wrapping himself; the cold didn't leave him. 

As Ringo asked him if he was alright and how the deliveries went on, making small discussions, Paul answered him amiably, slipping easily in the conversation; telling him of the streets he went to, the storm, the yelling cars, the treacherous puddles, and the tasty food. He hadn't really talked to Ringo up until now, but he was nice. His big nose and his rough stubble, his sea blue eyes, and the rings on his hands and earring on his right ear, made him look like an old pirate, stranded in Liddypool after a shipwreck. However the clothes he wore told a different story: they made him look like he came straight out of the 80s, a flashy Hawaiian shirt tucked into red velvet trousers, and yellow socks on his feet, written on each of them "Disco Boy". A somewhat funky pirate. The idea made him giggle and he found himself enjoying this conversation more and more. 

John came back with a pair of black sweatpants and a shirt, tucked under his armpits. He was grateful for the gesture, and said it so, nodding his thanks to Mr. Lennon. To which the client replied it was nothing and to call him John. However Paul was not one to be chaste, and was going to change in the middle of the living-room, until he remembered he was supposed to be on shift, and undressing in front of a client was unprofessional. Therefore he kindly asked for the bathroom, and was directed to it. Once inside, he stripped off his wet clothes, putting his beloved Bowie's sweater on a metal pod that supported the polka dot shower curtain, and folded the rest of his clothes in a plastic bag John had left there. Taking the black sweatpants, he recognized them as the trousers John wore the first time he saw him. They were a bit too large for him — a flash of John's meaty thighs flashed in his mind that he tried to quickly dismiss — and attained the floor. When he checked the white t-shirt for him, his eyes widened; on the front of it, was printed a faded Union Jack flag, with David Bowie blended in the colours, from his waist to his Ziggy Stardust's hairstyle. The shirt was beautiful, but not only that; it was the same artist that figured on his now soaked sweater. It meant two things, as Paul stared in awe at it; one, John had chosen that shirt because Paul usually had his Bowie sweater; two, John liked David Bowie. Squirming, he pulled the shirt tightly to his chest and beamed in the mirror. This John was definitely his favourite client now. 

After he put everything on, he walked back in his socks, bag with wet clothes in his left hand and white sneakers in the other, toward the living-room. Upon approaching, he heard the faint sound of music being played. Slowing down, he focused on the distinct sound of the chords and the voice; it was Little Richard. If he got it right, it was "Tutti Frutti", the first song of his first album, playing right now on a record player. One of his favourite artists. Suddenly he found himself running — he seriously started to run, sliding and stumbling on his socks — to the living-room, and as he stopped just in time, yelled: 

"You like Little Richard??" 

This action created a certain awkward moment, where Paul was facing his two clients, John on the couch still as a statue but eyes blinking, and Ringo, taken aback, had dropped one of the food boxes on the table, backing off a bit. Paul felt a flush rising to his cheeks: this wasn't professional at all. He was losing his control and composure. But could he be blamed? It was Little Richard! The artist that cheered him on days when life was too hard, or had brightened his happy days. Music occupied a crucial role in his life. He couldn't hide his excitement at the prospect of finding someone with similar tastes. First Bowie, then Little Richard. What would be next? Elvis and Thin Lizzy? The record player was on a chair, next to the television, playing the Little Richard disc. Underneath the television was a television cabinet with three storage spaces filled with different records; if Paul could, he would rummage through them all, watch each front picture, try each disc, and choose his favourites. Yet he stayed put, waiting for John's answer. 

"Welllll," he drew out with his nasal voice, nonchalantly. "I do. But I prefer Elvis honestly. Nothing can beat him." Paul didn't believe his ears. John moved on. "I hesitated with Thin Lizzy and Bowie, then settled on that. If you wanna change it, go on." 

Paul almost fainted, losing his footing for a second that made John get up abruptly from his seat and Ringo step forward to him. He straightened, standing tall and determined with his sniffling and shuffling, but beaming. This was the best client he ever had. As Ringo was on his side and about to support his weight, Paul felt his professional instincts kick in, and made a feeble attempt at brushing him off. 

"I can't. I-I'm still supposed to work and, even though normally you were the last delivery there might be some others and I- ACHOO!" 

"Nonsense!" John shouted from his reclaimed couch. When he had sneezed, Ringo had put a hand on his back, and was gently guiding him. He told him with his low and gentle voice.

"How about you stay here and warm up before? I'll make you a cuppa and when you feel better you'll go, ok?" Ringo didn't really give him any choice; he walked him to the couch and dropped him next to John, before leaving to make him a cup of tea. Paul wanted to protest, he really did! He wanted to get up, make sure he didn't make any more professional mistakes, go back to his work, and after take a long nap back home. Yet all his attempts were halted before they even began, for John shifted his body so it could be in his direction, put an arm on the sofa, circling him, and with a cocky smirk, asked that simple and basic question, that wouldn't have distracted anyone but Paul: 

"So, who's your favourite: Buddy Holly or Little Richard?" 

At this point, Paul was a lost cause. 

Ensued a long debate between the two lads, Paul having completely forgotten about his job, his worries, his duty, George warning him, and if a fleeting thought about his deliveries dared to cross his mind, it was quieted down with a strong and solid argument: "it's ok, John was his last delivery of tonight, he can stay a bit longer". How could he leave when he had a cup of green tea warming his hands, a comfortable couch to relax on, his favourite artist playing, and fingers grazing his shoulder never too long, but enough to be acknowledged. This was not how a client usually behaved, and Paul was only realizing now, that maybe this client was, in his weird way, making advances at him. It didn't disturb him much — it would be a lie to say he hadn't felt something special for this customer. Besides, he was simply captivated by the conversation he was having with him; John seemed too. They were discussing music, exploring the young artists from the 50s, the avant-garde bands from the 60s, classic songs through the 70s, glams and glitters of the 80s, and drifting lost music of the 90s. They had both agreed that after 2000, there wasn't much to say. It all happened in fleeting words, mentions over references, agreements and disagreements, smirks and smiles, laughs and fond eyes. So engrossing was their discussion that time passed and seemed to fly; Ringo's fussing remained unnoticed. When he dropped £17 for the order in his clothes bag, Paul nodded with quick thanks but dove back to John's voice. When he changed the side of the disc, or when he started eating calmly next to them while scrolling through his phone, they kept going, unstoppable. 

They grew closer and closer. Something was happening. Paul didn't know why, he didn't know what; he only knew he leaned into the arm behind him at one point, and their eye contact never broke apart. 

"She's Got It" slowly faded with Little Richard's voice. The disc ceased to turn. The album was over. Their conversation paused. Silence filled the room. Paul was gazing at the disc on hold. Twenty-five minutes of pure happiness and joy. Twenty-five minutes with his favourite artist and a great album. Twenty-five minutes on that couch talking with John, being with John. Twenty-five minutes, and possibly more, away from the storm and the clients. From the restaurant. From his job.

Paul let go of everything and abruptly got up. Oh god. Twenty-five minutes! And possibly more! 

"I have to go!" He gasped out, fidgeting, springing away but lost. He was rambling, panicking. "God I'm so late! I'm still supposed to work! How will I explain this to my boss? How could I let this happen? What-"

"Hey calm down!" John had gotten up too, joining his side. Ringo, alarmed, remained on the couch. But Paul didn't listen to him. 

"I really have to go John I'm sorry," he told him, trying to appear sincere in his anxious frenzy. He took the plastic bag with his wet shirt and jeans, then ran to his sneakers and put them on as he was walking back to his clients. He was facing John when he was tying them up. "Thank you for the clothes, and the tea and everything, and I'm sorry I have to leave like that, but I…" he paused, getting up, and took John's hand in his, shaking it, and squeezing it, a weak smile on his face. "I think I'm in trouble now." 

He didn't leave right at the end of his sentence. On the contrary, he waited for John to recover a bit from his onslaught of words; the client, frozen, simply nodded at him. 

"Okay." 

There were no minutes for more. Paul said his goodbyes to John and Ringo as he left the flat, running to the stairs, not turning back. He missed many steps, stumbling multiple times, almost falling as he reached the ground floor, and slamming the doors open on his way. Yet he momentarily slowed down when he saw the weather outside. It was still pouring. Thunder and lightning collided together. Puddles were layering the ground. Coldness filled his entire being with a single breath. It hadn't gotten better. His running nose was screaming at him not to go back under those punishing drops of water, his already shaking limbs protesting the same, his being repulsed by the idea. Yet, there were no other options. He took a step outside. Rain crashed on his hair, dripping from his head to his chest, soaking him once again. That was when he realized he had forgotten his Bowie sweater with hoodie back at John's flat. There was no time to retrieve it. With a strengthened resolve, he pushed past the elements and jumped on his bike, focused on his goal. He cycled through Colquitt Street, then turning sharply at Seel Street, attaining Berry Street in a minute. The neon lights saying "Hot Chillies" were bright under the dark, a mystical red aura surrounding the place as he got closer and closer. In front of it he put his bike away and strode to the door. But he stopped once again, under the raging rain, for he saw through the glass the figure he dreaded: his boss, in the entrance, one arm on the bar and the other holding the phone. He was already there. 

His boss' name was Douglas Bailey. Bailey was a comfortable man in his mid-fifties. He owned three restaurants in Liverpool: a traditional British one on the docks, a cheap Japanese fast food one, and this Indian restaurant; the last one was his favourite. He wasn't always here, but most of the time he was watching over their work — not much in the kitchen for one day George had yelled at him that he didn't know anything about cooking and therefore should stay away. He wasn't overbearing, but work was supposed to be done quickly, precisely, and controlled. A conservative, sometimes with political and societal opinions that made Paul cringe, with no room for arguments. There shouldn't be one penny used wrongly, not one penny more. Paul, and most of the staff, except George again, were underpaid, but Paul couldn't complain; getting this job had been a chance that he couldn't refuse, even if it was a straining one. He owed it to his dad and brother; he still lived at his father's house at twenty-four. 

He observed Bailey quietly. The greedy and patronising man, tall and large, was scratching his greying beard as he spoke on the phone. Imagining his gruff yet posh voice was easy. His hair was neatly combed as always, straight and reaching his ears, blonde with many grey streaks. At one point, he seemed to be saying his farewells; his whole demeanor stood, hands on his hips, grey striped suit perfect.

Paul waited for him to finish his call, growing more and more anxious. The reaction he'd receive was unknown, anything could happen; he could only be yelled at, threatened to be fired, loaded with more work. While he knew his boss appreciated his work, being a deliverer or a waiter — clients were appreciative of his charming personality and careful service and that was good for the restaurant — it didn't mean he couldn't fall off his good grace. This job was vital to him; such professional mistakes were unacceptable. 

Bailey hung up. Paul ceased biting his nails. He entered the restaurant, anxiety veiled. 

"Paul! My best delivery boy!" Bailey exclaimed as soon as Paul set foot in the entrance. Not catching on the positive tone in his boss' voice, deeming it as another patronizing fake praise, he kept his head low, tentatively curling his lips up, but not too much. Cold water was sliding down his spine, cooling down his nerves. 

"Yes sir? Sorry I'm late I-" 

"Don't tell me anything boy," Bailey walked forward to him, in a stride, shark grey eyes twinkling. A harsh, somewhat friendly, pat on his back, made him stumble forward. His anxiety rose, at a loss; interpreting this was unreasonable. Bailey seemed strangely happy. With a hand gripping his shoulder, possessive, he leaned closer to him, broad nose near Paul's uncomfortable expression. He smirked. "I know everything. You did good helping them." 

"... I- what?" 

"The client, John, was his name," Paul's eyes widened at the name. "He just called to warn me you'd be late because you helped his flatmate get home. He had fallen off the stairs to his flat and was hurt. But you helped, made sure he was alright, took care of him; how thoughtful of you my dear! The client thanked you and said you were the best deliverer he had seen." 

Frozen, Paul didn't know what to say. The blatant lie that escaped Bailey's mouth, the phone call from Ringo and John that probably saved him, the — God they really did that to save him! This was too much for his poor slow iced brain, and he sneezed in answer. It didn't faze his boss; pivoting to face him, he put both of his hands on his shoulders, a broad smile on his face.

"My dear Paul, you just won us another faithful client." 

With this sentence he left, clapping his hands with a "now go back to work" and leaving for his office next to the dining room. Paul had still not moved. 

The gesture that John and Ringo did, was unexpected; usually Paul didn't appreciate the unexpected; he liked to know what would happen, to plan, to anticipate, for he could be ready. He had prepared himself for a reprimand; he received praise. Because Ringo and John had seen his panic, and they didn't reproach him of leaving so fast and so rudely; they helped him. They understood: more than that, they had taken their time to help him manage through this mess. The number of things they had done for him tonight was huge: they had welcomed him, dried him, given him a pair of fresh clothes, tea, made sure he was warm, talked to him, and now this. Strangely moved by all of this, he looked down at John's Bowie shirt, lips quirked up and brows softening. Ringo was a friend it seemed. John… he had gained a special place in Paul's heart after tonight. In a reverie, he stared at the shirt, flushed, sick, but warm and touched. 

He didn't have much in life, but he wasn't one to complain. He had a straining job, his father’s house, an incomplete family, one friend; some had none of these. But tonight, it seemed there was a change. Tonight his heart was full. 

Fortunately George went to break this spell. 

Rushing out of the kitchen, he took him by the collar and dragged him to the kitchen. To Paul's protest, he replied with a bark that left no room for argument: 

"You're going to explain to me what happened for real right fucking now!" 

That was how Paul found himself in George's kitchen for the next ten minutes, telling him of the service and what happened at John's flat, suffering of his judgments, but enjoying his jokes and worried questions about him. 

It is however no surprise if he told you that, by the end of this story, George still didn't like John. He really was trouble.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 3_ **

(~6700 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise next chapter, you are getting the starrison meeting 😂 but I still hope you enjoyed this ! Thank you for reading, please leave a comment if you can (if you guessed the album of the chapter title, what you liked, what you preferred ect.) And if you dont have time for this chapter, leave a lil kudos  
> Please, stay safe in these hard times. In France, theres another lockdown, so it is getting harder right now. Which is why I hope you all take care ❤  
> See you next time !


	4. Cookin' In The Kitchen Of Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The delivery lad is sick. It's a tragedy for John. But he has a generous flatmate, who offers to fetch the food for them while he grieves. 
> 
> But no one warned Ringo the restaurant would be packed and stuffed. No one warned him the service was a mess. 
> 
> No one warned him he would meet the chef. 
> 
> Two hours with Ringo Starr, the funky pirate disco boy, discovering the chef of Hot Chillies. He might not be a "prick"...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... this is the last chapter of the introduction. We finally get the starrison meeting.  
> I have no idea if I'll get many comments for this chapter or if many people will read it, cause I'm kinda scared that people wont be as equally interested in the starrison part of this story as with the mclennon part  
> I hope to be wrong but idk. So I'm kinda unsure about this 
> 
> Which is why I would really appreciate any comment on this chapter, to tell me what you thought,if you liked it, or if it was interesting (especially that)  
> I hope this chapter will distract you from the rough times we are going through for a little while, and make you smile for some minutes. Dont forget to take care, and enjoy the chapter 💙

"What do you mean Paul won't deliver today!"

From Ringo's room the shout John produced was clear and loud, causing anyone to cease their current activities; such as painting for Ringo. Grumbles accompanied by a sigh coming from the living-room were signs that the troubled young lad received bad news. Ringo let out a sigh of his own, looking at the work he was going to pause for John's sake once again. There was no hurry however; he looked longingly at his painting resting on his knees before going.

On a relatively small canvas of an A4 size — which was about 8.3×11.7 inches — he had begun to depict on an unfinished sketch the figure of a man, sitting next to a wall filled lowers bushes. Cross-legged, on the right bottom corner of the sheet, he was surrounded by yellow roses and lilacs, pink orchids accompanied by red daisies, pale daffodils. Yet, all these flowers weren't painted precisely, nor were their petals or their centres; they were dots of colours, grouped together, to make green bushes light up with pink and red and yellow stains and small dots. Playing with the textures, the bushes were a dark forest background, smooth to the touch, while the flowers were rough, scratchy coloured points. The ensemble seemed blurry, vibrant and moving with the painting; the man on the bottom wasn't; his figure was detailed under his dim clothes, vividly serious. Alive, if not for his vacant face. For Ringo hadn't yet painted eyes, nor a nose nor a mouth, not even a strand of hair. His intent wasn't to abandon his painting with an anonymous man; he only did not know what that face would be. On his bed — of an ocean blue and starry pillows — where he had sat to paint, rested two sheets with sketches over sketches of various faces. Some were drawn by him — the worst, he'd say — and some others were of John — the best. But the dozens of different faces didn't satisfy him; they lacked a little something that Ringo couldn't figure out. Maybe was it their emptiness, their absence of this glimmer of life in their eyes, their void of reality. Whatever it was, Ringo felt trapped under the dozens of faces on his sheet and the faceless man on his canvas. He sighed. This wouldn't be the day he would complete this painting.

He stood, careful as not to damage the canvas, which he put on his desk full of brushes and paint stains. A book was slipping dangerously from a shelf above it, and he hastily put it back, safely stuck between piles of video games and recipe books or health books. He flicked on the main light of the room, so he could go switch off his blue and green lava lamp on his bedside table and his neon bed lamp; while he preferred to draw in a pitch-black room, he didn't like the dark, just like John, and often slept with his lava lamp on. He patted his first octopus plushie resting on the table, and smiled at his old drumsticks tucked in one of its tentacles, an old gift from his childhood hospital — both the drumsticks and the plushie. As he turned around, he kicked a painting, winced, and placed it in a corner of a room where a storage box was filled with other colourful artworks that Ringo didn't like. Not like he ever liked one; the only painting that was hung on his wall was one of John's. It was a magnificent one: tangerine sky on an A3 canvas, a yellow submarine underneath blue waves, its superior part peeking out, and seagulls in the distance, shadows appearing like blackbirds. It was so coloured, so happy and serene, absurdly calm, that when John had achieved it, he had gifted it to him, saying "it fits you perfectly Rings!". He had been right; it fitted perfectly in his ocean room, melted with the two navy blue walls and the white ones on the horizontal. He loved his room.

From the living-room, he realized no more words were echoing through the walls, angry or relieved. The phone call was over. It was safe to leave; but maybe it wasn't with John. He had called the Indian restaurant, as he had wanted to meet Paul again, and occasionally because he wanted a Sunday lunch; either there would be no meal or no Paul.

Exiting his room, he walked to see his flatmate slumped on the couch, head deep in a cushion and arms and legs spread like a massive starfish. His hair was in complete disarray. Groaning, he sounded desperate. Ringo suppressed a chuckle; if someone had told him three weeks ago that his flatmate would be reduced to a puddle of longing and yearning romance for a simple delivery lad from a local Indian restaurant, after an entire year of moping around after a harsh heartbreak, he wouldn't have believed them. It was pathetically adorable to witness his flatmate become so enamoured so fast — notably two days ago, when the deliverer had been shivering on their doorstep and John had spent the night after Paul left gushing about Paul's tastes in music or worrying over him. However, he had to admit it was much more preferable to witness John have hope again, in love and in life: he had missed it.

He had been John's flatmate for three years now; 22, finally a decent job that earned him some cash; not enough to rent a flat of his own yet, he had turned to his old friend for some help. He and John had met when they were younger, playing in rival bands, but hanging out every time a concert ended. This had gone on for three years, until John reached the age of 21 and he left his band to get a proper job. Well, one that his aunt had obtained for him; she had also paid for this flat, on the condition that John gave up on the band — which he did, as Stuart, "a living god of arts" resigned it before him. Did he leave the band because his dearest friend quit in favour of finishing his art studies or because he didn't want to lose the last family member he had, Ringo didn't know. They had shared this flat together, and at one point, with John's hurtful boyfriend. He remembered. John had been twenty-three, discovering his sexuality, afraid and angry, trying to conceal it, with a much older guy who was constantly dismissing him, pressuring him, and not infatuated the same way John was. To this day, Ringo was convinced the man had stayed only because he had money and was vulnerable. But when the man broke up with John, three years later, he forced him to carry the burden alone, claiming he was leaving "because John couldn't live authentically with him". Ensued a long year with a depressed John, disgusted with himself and heartbroken, and poor Ringo helping as much as he could. He had started to feel better with the beginning of the new year, but meeting the deliverer had been the ultimate step.

Ringo wasn't naïve; he knew that when things became official with Paul, many problems would come to the surface as John's insecurities would rise. But he was optimistic and wished to believe in John. John needed at least one person to believe in him.

He approached the couch John still occupied. Sitting on the armrest, he gently grazed his shoulders, telling him that he was here. A huffed dramatic voice replied:

"My life is miserable Ringo!"

Ringo chuckled at his flatmate's antics.

"And why is that, John?"

With his forearms, John lifted his upper body up, an angry pout on his face and squinting without his glasses.

"Paul is sick."

Naturally he was. It wasn't a surprise with the state he had been in when he arrived Friday, soaked and sneezing. Some days of rest, and he would be better; he was sure the warmth and the sun of this Sunday would soothe him. About to say this to John, he was disturbed when John gripped his wrist, glossy eyes distressed.

"And they won't deliver."

Ah. So not only was his not-yet hot dreamlike boyfriend missing, but a starved John couldn't have food coming to him; he had to W A L K to get it. That was unacceptable for John, who was already wallowing in sadness. Inconceivable. Impossible. John would be hugging this red pillow for the next hour at least. He wasn't going to move.

However, Ringo had a gentle heart; he was compassionate, felt deeply for others; when someone was down, he wished to make a smile appear on their face, relieve their worries, make them forget, for a minute, the troubles of their heart. Sometimes, Ringo could look past his own wounded heart to help.

A smile on his face, he took a soft voice, attracting John's attention from the cushion once again. When the pouting man looked up at him, he suggested:

"Hey, I'll fetch the food and ask when Paul will be back, ok?"

John's eyes went round, mouth in a tight line. A bit worried to have expressed the wrong thing, he started to get up and move to dress to go out. He knew John had ordered for noon thirty, which was an hour from now on. Best be ready so he could leave earlier. Before that, he put on one of John's favourite vinyl — a Buddy Holly one — and retrieved one of John's sketchbooks laying around to give him. John took it, eyes looking up. Finally, he spoke.

"You're too good for this world Ringo; you know that?"

Ringo laughed.

"Of course I know that! You repeat it everytime I help you."

Already John seemed better; he half-smiled, took the sketchbook and started drawing as he hummed to the music. Ringo let him be, preparing for the restaurant of a ridiculous name. In his room, he took a blue striped, crew-neck white sweater, fitting with his light sky blue jeans, cuffed to let the writings on his socks appear — they were his favourites, "Disco Boy" written in yellow.

He was prepared to go out at 12.10. The weather remained a bit chilly outside, which would change in the middle of May. He knew he was likely to glimpse the chef tonight. "A prick" — John's words, not his. Maybe he wasn't, maybe he was, he didn't mind. As long as he could know when Paul would be back, John would be fine, and he would be too.

Sitting on his bed, he scrolled through his phone, waiting.

*** 

Ten minutes earlier than intended, and the restaurant was packed the moment he stepped inside. There was a long queue just after the door consisting of six people — now seven with Ringo — waiting in the entrance, probably to receive their orders like Ringo. The main restaurant room seemed filled: noises and chatters were reverberating, echoing to the entrance; the cutlery was clicketing, footsteps were stomping, calls from the kitchen and hurried apologies from the waiter. In the queue, the people before him were talking between each other, mostly complaining, groaning and mumbling. For once Ringo was glad he decided to go instead of John; the lad would have exploded.

On his tiptoes, he was peeking up, trying to gaze at the scene in front of him. There was a counter before the first person in the line. There seemed to be no one behind it. That was curious. He had only perceived one young boy in the restaurant room, but he seemed to be the waiter; was he also the one in charge of the entrance? Maybe he was the one who had to grant them their orders. He turned his head. The young man, not older than twenty years old, in casual oversized clothes, was walking so fast from one side of the room to the other. Beads of sweat were sticking to his forehead, and he was biting his lip in clear nervousness. If that was the state of the main room, he couldn't imagine how it was in the kitchen.

Two people were talking in front of him, a reasonably large man and a short-haired woman. Eavesdropping, he listened.

"We've been waiting for thirty minutes Yasmin! I don't think I can wait anymore."

"I know Roger, at this point we might as well leave. But give them a bit more time, please," the woman answered.

Thirty minutes they had been waiting. They had arrived before Ringo. How long would he have to wait? He could leave right away and explain to John why he came back empty handed. Indecision filled his mind. The people around him were so furious it was suffocating. A ringing from the kitchen was repeated multiple times, producing a shrill sound in his ears. The waiter was running all around. He should leave. They were too many people.

A step on the side to escape the line. As he was about to leave, he distinguished the counter at the end of line. There was an old man heavily leaning on it and cursing, yelling to a person behind the counter that he couldn't discern. What he could perceive was that he had curvy brown hair and was rather tall and thin. Before he could flee outside, he caught a brief moment of their somewhat amicable conversation:

"This is unacceptable to be this late! Where is my food?" The old man was fuming. It was quite impolite, for he demonstrated no respect for the person in front of him. A rough voice with a thick Scouse accent replied, direct and frank.

"Look Sir, I already told you before, but today, we're really short-staffed, I'm alone in the kitchen, and we have many orders left. Please be patient, and I promise you'll get it with a discount."

"A discount?" The grey-haired elder shrieked — no respect for the clients trying to eat in peace in this panic. "I shouldn't have to pay for anything in such a lousy place! It's shameful!" He slammed his hands on the table. The other people in the line were looking in the same direction as Ringo; the restaurant room was ignorant to it; the waiter was eyeing his colleague with concern. He still couldn't describe the worker's features, but he caught a glimpse of furrowed bushy brows, and glaring dark eyes. However, there were no movements from the other man. Ringo guessed that he was the cook John had told him about — the "prick" with no name that John wished to never see again. The chef crossed his arms, straightened, looking down on him.

"Well, Sir," his tone was icy."If you think the restaurant is 'lousy', you don't have to stay."

With that, the chef turned his back to the line and retreated through a door, out of their sight. The elder man struck his hands down again and strode to the exit, offended. Ringo couldn't feel pity for him. But he was intrigued. His curiosity had been picked by the other man. While he had sounded assured and put together, he hadn't hidden how stressful the situation was. He was distressed. There was only one waiter, one chef. Countless tables occupied, some still with no meal. Six people in the queue. Ringo was glancing at the exit. He should leave. And yet, he had hesitated. Out of the line, in the middle of the entrance, he was staring at the door leading to the kitchen and his chef, under a terrible pressure. An opening in the wall drew his attention, for it was as a small window to the kitchen and its movements. The chef was visible. His back to a fridge, right hand gripping his apron, left hand massaging the space between his eyes and his nose. He heaved a sigh. Dejected eyes lazily opening. Exhausted beyond Ringo's imagination. The man went back to his work, arms acting fast, mind disconnected.

He needed help. Ringo would give it. Because he was always willing to assist others, whether he knew them or not. A generous man. Moreover, did Ringo ever mention that he worked at the canteen service of the Mersey Parks Care Home? He did multiple tasks there, but it was one he was an expert at.

It was a feeble knowledge in the cooking world. But any help, however small it was, was still help.

He walked up to the counter, passed behind it, and was pushing through the kitchen door.

When he stepped inside, the atmosphere was completely different. Pans were heating, ovens were warming, water was boiling, plates were ready to be filled, and the chef's hands were flying from saucers to skillets. Hunched over a plate, he paused to plate it up. From a pot he took a ladle of thick creamy sauce with chicken, and from another, rice. Then his hands plunged in small bowls, all aligned together, containing spices and herbs, that he used as he wished. During these actions, Ringo observed the man, finally discerning his features clearly. He was about Paul's height, thinner, to the point of being skinny, around 23 or 22 years old, therefore younger than him. He moved around quickly as if he had no time to waste, his flared beige linen trousers flowing. With a white apron covered in stains, both washed out and recent ones, his white shirt with its rolled up sleeves miraculously stayed clean. Ivory skin coloured a face with high cheekbones and a long, straight nose. However instead of the "disgusting oily hair," John had informed him, was a wavy, curvy, mid-length mass of coffee brown hair, floating gracefully on his shoulders. He had also been incorrect with his eyes: they weren't of a cold brown, but more chocolate, warmer; sharp but bright. Focused on his work, he didn't notice Ringo and moved his fingers carefully, slowly as he put the final touch on his plate. Every gesture seemed to be controlled. No words escaped him: if something didn't satisfy him, he would grimace but not curse; if it did, his brows would flinch.

Ringo was a bit surprised; John despised the man the moment he sighted him, because he looked rude and uncaring; observing him work, for the first time, didn't convey this impression. Dedicated to his work, serious and concentrated. Maybe he didn't seem friendly, but that was to be expected in the mess he was. Ringo was convinced they could get along for this service. He just had to propose his help. This would happen precisely now as he was completing his observations, for the lad had finished his two plates. On an opening on another wall, connecting the kitchen to the main restaurant room, he placed them on a plank, and rang a counter bell, addressing the waiter. When the plates were gone to the table he named, the chef rubbed his hands on his apron as he pivoted in Ringo's direction. Tilting his head up, he saw him. He froze. Caught in the middle of action. They stared at each other.

Unspoken words were understood: the chef squinted, asking silently who he was, what he was doing here. So Ringo introduced himself, in his welcoming and cheerful tone.

"Hi! I'm Richard Starkey, but you can call me Ringo," he said as he waved. Meters apart. The chef stood silent. "I heard you were alone in the kitchen?" He tried hesitantly.

Suspicious eyes were pining him to the wall. Yet Ringo hadn't flinched; he was used to such looks, for John used to send him similar ones in the past. However, he understood: the chef would stay silent until he judged it was necessary to speak up. He wasn't one for chit chat. Choosing his words, aiming for the purpose of his arrival in the chef's sanctuary, he declared:

"I could help you. I know I'm only a cook in a Care Home canteen, but I can listen and perform simple tasks. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. I can be your kitchen help for this service."

He held his breath. The chef didn't reply, just eyed him up and down.

Momentarily, he panicked. Why did he offer his help? He knew nothing of Indian food! He wasn't a chef. His knowledge wouldn't be enough in front of a chef, and he might just bother him more than actually help, and-

No, he had wanted to help. He would help, the best way he could.

If the chef accepted it. Of course.

Said chef, relaxed his stance. He shrugged as he faintly smiled — a really faint one that he perhaps had imagined.

"You've got an apron Richard?"

"Uh?" He blinked, taken aback as he heard the rough Scouse voice directed at him for the first time. Simultaneously, the chef had walked to one of the storage cabinets and took out a beige apron. It was launched at him, and Ringo seized it before it hit his chest. When he looked back at him, the chef turned back to his pans and saucers: back to his work.

"So ya follow my lead, and we finish that service. Okay?"

Ringo watched him move for a second. Then he pressed the cloth to his body, passed his head through the laces, and tied it behind him. Washed his hands. Dried them. Joined the man's side. He sent him a bright grin.

"Yes chef!" He replied with no hesitation.

He still didn't know his name.

"Alright, here's your station," the chef pointed to the one on his right. "The vegetables are in the basket behind you. I'm running low on prepared vegetables, so you'll cut me onions, garlic, and potatoes. You'll put some tomatoes to boil for the Chole. Oh and crush some herbs and spices for the vindaloo chicken. And then you'll shape and fry koftas. And help me plate up."

He had listed all of this without a break in his actions. Ringo was lost around the second instruction. Regrets were climbing to his head: he could never accomplish this service. His place wasn't in an authentic Indian restaurant. He shouldn't have proposed his help.

George must have felt his growing distress, for he grinned as he glanced.

"I'm just having you on." Ringo exhaled in relief, but not for too long. "You'll do all of that step by step."

With these irrevocable words, Ringo's service started. First he took the nearest knife hanging on the wall with the others, fetched red and white onions, garlic, and potatoes, peeled and cut them, rhythmically. He acted promptly, and soon the metal containers on the other man's left were filled again with his handy work. Fetching herbs, he did the exact same, never stopping, never blinking. Crushing them together with spices he never heard of, he was making mixtures unknown to him, but probably good for the chef. When said chef was confronted with the rapidity of Ringo's movements, proving he was a real cook, he smirked. Ringo caught it and smiled back. His worth had been proven. No more hesitation about his place: he would remain here for the duration of the service. And judging by the numerous small sheets pinned to a board next to the opening, it would still be long.

Peeling tomatoes, cutting them, making them boil, so he could mash them and refill the tomato sauce. Frying onions. Baking flatbreads. Listening to every word his chef muttered — Ringo noticed that in all this mess, his voice never went high, never screamed or shouted. Performing everything he said. Stirring the sauces when the chef was busy setting up plates. Doing the contrary when the chef was busy stirring the sauces. Grilling chickens and lambs. Sending more and more plates out. Crossing what was done on the order sheets. Walking in the cramped kitchen and hitting elbows with the chef. Exchanging encouraging words. With the resolve to finish this service. They had this.

At that point in time the chef asked him the following request, that Ringo didn't understand:

"Can you shape and fry the vegetable koftas now? The bowl is in the fridge."

But Ringo didn't know what koftas were. He didn't know what it tasted like, what it looked like, what they were made of, how they were prepared or baked. He was lost. Panicking in his mind. He just stared at the chef, his mouth in a pout, hoping it would convey his message:"I'm sorry I failed you I don't know what's a kofta."

"You don't know what a kofta is?" The chef understood right away. He nodded, a bit embarrassed: he proposed his help, and now he needed someone to help. The service would slow down, because of him. Was it the moment where his chef would finally, under the pressure of it all, explode? Would he ultimately raise his voice? 

No, he wouldn't.

"Ok, I'll show you how to do one, so you can do the rest." He said ever so patiently. Two steps to reach the fridge and bring out a bowl with a strange dough of a rust color. Following him to an oil fryer, the chef started to explain, without an ounce of anger in his voice. Patience incarnated.

He explained to him, showing him how to do it. The chef seized a modest portion of the dough, rolled it in his palms, before lightly squeezing it and resting it on a plate. Koftas were small meatballs, but the ones the chef had made were "Malai koftas", which were vegetable meatballs. A mix of potatoes, carrots, chickpeas, mashed with curry spices and paneer, that were supposed to be fried and served with rice. But here the chef wished to add two to all the orders that were late, as a sorry for the delay. That was how Ringo learned that they had significantly caught up with the service. He was bubbling with relief: too much, for when it was his turn, he crushed the kofta in his hand. Shame heated his face.

A chuckle came from behind him. Hands clasped his. They guided his. They became one. They took another, rolled it in their hands. Squeezed it oh so lightly, a gentle press of the chef's fingers on his.

"See?" The chef whispered, breathing down his neck. "That's how you do it."

As soon as he finished his sentence, he clapped his hands and went away to his plates, leaving his own hands cold. Ringo had a second of absence. His cheeks felt warm again, but not from shame. He brushed it aside: they had a service to conclude.

Soon all the plates were leaving in the main room. Desserts were on their way, and they were mostly already prepared. The orders were disappearing from the board. The rhythm was slowing down, and the panic had vanished. A quick cleaning of their kitchen worktops. The last plate — three Mudaks, an Indian dessert Ringo had eaten last time Paul delivered — was leaving in the waiter's hands. Jimmy was his name, for he had assimilated it during the service. When they did, they took out the last sheet off the board. They were finished.

It was hard to describe to you that feeling of genuine relief that swept through the kitchen. A deep sigh fled from his lips. Sweat was sliding down his forehead. The chef was gentler in his movements as he was pouring hot water in a teapot. Ringo's back was heavily leaning on one of the worktops, drained. A cup was in his hands. Filled with a warm green tea, Ringo nodded his thanks. The chef imitated his stance, leaning comfortably, facing Ringo. Their shoes were touching in the narrow space. The silence was welcomed. It engulfed them wholly. No words. Ringo's thoughts were rare and few. His feelings were still dancing: a sense of accomplishment, gladness to have managed to help, adrenaline from the rush of it all and calmness from a thing done. The chef looked the same, warming his hands. In this instant, after about an hour and a half of cooking, cutting, frying, setting, Ringo didn't regret his choice: deciding to propose his help to this restaurant fulfilled him. Perhaps John would whine, yell or complain for how long he had taken, but it was a minor counterpoint to it all.

He just wished to know the name of the chef after all of this. But to his surprise, it was the chef who talked first, eyes above his cup, humour shining in them. He looked at peace.

"So, what are you? A kitchen angel?"

The kitchen help of the day choked on his drink, letting out an embarrassed laugh.

"What?" He chuckled some more, resting his cup on his lap.

"I'm serious," George sipped, before continuing, an arm across his chest while the other stayed close to his face. "You come from nowhere, see that the service is hell, that we were probably going to lose some clients, and you propose your help. And you did pretty well. Maybe you are an angel helping every restaurant in need." He chuckled at his own joke, mouth hidden by his purple teacup.

"I- well," Ringo was embarrassed at the obvious compliments and thanks. His hands were flying around, but uselessly, so he tucked them back to cup. "I just, like to help people. And you looked like you needed it. I'm just a cook of a Care Home, but it felt… right, to help."

The chef nodded, closing his eyes in approval.

"Angel or not, I have to thank you for your help, Richard." Ringo noticed the chef preferred to use his proper name. "We wouldn't have made it without you."

Shying away, he shrugged, eyes on his tea. He was playing with his earring without noticing. Ringo didn't fare well with compliments or thanks. It was natural for him: the fact it wasn't for others wasn't evident either.

"It's n-nothing, chef."

"Ya can stop calling me that, the service is over," the chef said with a shrug of his own. But it was easy to say, for Ringo still had no clue as to who he was speaking to. While he had learnt more about the mysterious chef through these demanding hours, unveiling his silence to discover a patient, calm and frank personality, he had never heard of the name to attach to the serene but impassive face. Therefore, at the end of it all he couldn't tell you the name of the one he helped. Honesty was something the man valued, so Ringo admitted his ignorance.

"I don't know your name."

The chef's eyebrows rose. Surprised by the truth, but not only: a hint of disappointment, at himself, flashed in his eyes and made him grimace. It was as if his stance shifted. What was the reason behind this, he couldn't comprehend: he seemed to close off.

"George. George Harrison."

Nothing more. George Harrison. Never did he hear of it. And never would he hear more about the man. As he observed him, Ringo deduced that the chef — George, now he knew — was uneasy when talking about himself. It was something Ringo accepted wholly: he lived with a man who dreaded any topics hitting too close to home, and he himself tended to lower his self or stop talking, whenever someone dared to speak highly of him. He respected that. Wanting to break the ice slowly forming, he thought of a conversation starter. George looked to be a man that liked doing something to ground him: he had, as astounding as it was with the horrible service that happened, relaxed when they cooked together. Doing what he liked had helped. Now, he couldn't go and just ask him to make more food, could he? And who would it be for? For him—

Ringo's eyes went round. His arms fell to his sides. He had come to retrieve his order, but did they actually make it?

"By the way, George…" he tried, playing with his cup in a pathetic attempt to relax. The other only hummed in his teacup in reply. "Did you make my order? Cause that's why I was here for and—"

"Shit!" The chef said, slamming his teacup on the surface, striding to the board, and sorting through the finished order sheets underneath. "There was one order that no one came to take, and —if I could find it again!— and Jimmy had taken it, but knowing that idiot he threw it away!"

Watching him growing nervous, lost in his papers, many of them falling to the floor, Ringo rushed in to alleviate his worry.

"No no, it's ok! Don't worry with it," he had noticed he was next to him, patting his shoulder as he spoke. But even now that he remarked it, he didn't mind and kept his hand on it until the chef sighed and halted his searching.

"I'm sorry," he was dejected."I should have been more careful. And I can't start a full meal now that we packed and cleaned everything. Sorry again."

"Hey it's ok," he reassured him. "Besides, it's too late to eat anyway."

"Let me see if there's a small thingy I can do at least."

Ringo nodded and left him to it. The chef went to the fridge and saw what he had. Resting his eyes on a box, he took it out and opened it on the station. Inside were Indian sweets, prepared for this service and tonight's, colourful and delightful. From carrot fudges, to coconut ladoos and peanut brittles, accompanied by tiny bowls of quinoa and apple kheer puddings, he had plenty of choice. George gave him none to make: he took a cartoon box and put two of each dessert in it. As he did so with precision and care, under Ringo's dumbfounded expression, he asked:

"What was your order by the way?"

"T-two vegetarian sets."

The man halted and turned sharply.

"You're John's flatmate?" It was the first time his voice had risen.

"Yes?"

"Paul told me about you, but—" he seemed completely taken aback by this piece of information. Torn between laughing and cringing, Ringo interpreted it as his "I don't believe it" expression. Although Ringo didn't understand his reaction. His answer came shortly, when he laughed. "How can you stand him? You're so different!" 

Ringo snorted at that, the indignation in his voice hilarious in his exaggeration. The chef's hands were swifter.

"Paul, I could understand why he would like that idiot, but you? With that troublemaker?"

"He isn't that bad!" he laughed out loud.

"Oh yeah? What's your story then? Why is such a nice lad like you with him?"

Flushing once again at the casual compliment, he proceeded to tell him a bit about himself. How he met John and their rival bands. When John left and his band fell. A professional qualification in culinary arts that he got late, around 21 years old, not mentioning why. Drifting to bad jobs for a year. Finding a refugee in the Mersey Parks Care Home. Earning a significant wage with a steady job for the first time, but not having enough for a flat of his own. Contacted his old friend and was welcomed on his doorstep. Had lived there for three years. John supported him financially whenever he needed it. Ringo supported him mentally whenever he needed it. He developed a bit of his work. How his marks were so low, and how his poor background had stopped him from getting jobs in restaurants, canteens, until the Care Home received him. Wasn't much. But it was something. All of this was told with humour and smiles, as if he sang a sad song on a cherry tune, one where people ignored the lyrics in favour of the dancing rhythm. Ringo did it on purpose. Yet he couldn't conceal it: he felt strangely at ease speaking to George. A somewhat peacefulness radiated from him and engulfed his own body and mind. Words flew from his mouth without fear. Free.

George asked questions once in a while, but he was mostly focused on finishing the sweets box for Ringo, listening. By the end of it, he was pouring tea in two cartoon cups, placing them in the box and closing it. A closed box for him.

About to pay, George refused it. He didn't insist.

He knew he was supposed to leave now. But how could he say goodbye? Would he ever meet him again? There were few chances they worked together again: fate wasn't planning for him or George to quit a steady job. Yet, he would have liked too. The man was… nice. More than that: he had a great humour, he was calm and patient, he valued honesty and time, and he grew warmer around him. Perhaps he would come back to the restaurant, just to drop by, to propose his help once again. Perhaps not. The future was unknown to him; he couldn't predict if he would grow closer to this lad or not. He wouldn't mind it.

"Well, I best be on my way," he took off his apron and folded it on the station behind him. He clutched the box, and clasped it under his arm. "I don't want to bo—"

"Can I ask ya something a bit direct Richard?"

If Ringo answered honestly, he would have said that it wasn't different from up until now, but he politely nodded instead.

"What's your phone number?"

That was quite blunt. His frozen stance sent the wrong message to George.

"It was just in case I'd need your help again, or if you want to order quicker or… just to talk?"

The last bits of hesitancy hidden within the chef's resolve answered all of Ringo's previous questions. He jumped on the occasion, thanking the awkward bluntness of the man.

"Of course! Here, give me your phone, I'll write it."

With a smile, he typed it and dared to take a picture of himself for a profile pic. Handing it back to George, he was answered with a thanks and a nod. He departed from the kitchen, flashing one of his peace signs, walked through the door, and he was gone.

As he strolled around, in no hurry to get back home and be confronted with John's wrath — was it exaggerated? His flaming gaymate was unpredictable — or whining. But he could care less about his mate's judgement or complaints: today he had done well. He helped their favourite restaurant, met the chef, cooked in a real and good place: he was proud of himself. The chef's company had been welcoming and friendly despite the first impression he gave of a cold and silent man. Different to how John had described him. Which made him ponder on how John could find him rude. Honest, yes. But rude? Not to him then. A talented, mysterious, but lovely man.

In his jean pocket he heard his phone vibrate. It was the first time he noticed it, hence the dozens of missed texts from John that said "where are you" "where is my food" "I'm hungry". But a new one had just come from a stranger's number. It was from George. A selfie of him was joined, displaying a smirk and a thumb up. A thought entered his mind: was this the face his painting missed? Perhaps, he could use it. As he developed this idea, George’s face in his mind started to replace the anonymous man surrounded by flowers, bushes, calmness and mystery. The man became the painting. It was as if its center, its core, became George. He was the essence that his canvas lacked. Perhaps, he would finish his painting today.

The text he received said the following:

_ "Thank you again ;) you'll tell me how the sweets were" _

Really, George wasn't "a prick".

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 4_ **

(~6700 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY FINALLY MET!  
> Once again, any comment is deeply appreciated and they make my day, so dont hesitate if you have time for it 💙  
> And once again: take it easy on yourself. These are rough, stressful times that we're going through, no matter where you live. So, be proud of yourself for having gone through this day, any others. We have to stick together and lift each other up.  
> Take care, and I hope to see you for the next chapter 💙


	5. We're Open Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On this Wednesday morning, John waited for his lunch break. For he had made a decision: see Paul at the restaurant and bring him his sweater and notebook back.
> 
> Then he would see how things went. He hadn't thought further than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya everybody ! Thank you for the lovely and detailed comments, and big thanks to those who already did leave one and still do; it makes me warm to recognize names hehe. 
> 
> About the story: we finished the introduction. The next three chapters are linked (chapter 7 being the first conclusion to the first part of the story). The beginning is a bit slow and descriptive but I promise the end is worth it. So get on your seat, grab a cup of tea, relax, enjoy ^^

Liverpool Central Library was a fifteen minutes walk away from John's flat in Colquitt Street. Situated behind St John's Garden, in William Brown Street. It was a massive and old building, with a modern interior, except for the Oak Room, where calmness ruled in this ancient room extracted from a Harry Potter's film. That was where John worked every other day; if not, it was in one of those workspaces cramped with computers and technical books. The elegant building benefited from the privilege to welcome John Lennon under his roof, from nine AM to seven PM every day except for the weekends. Nevertheless, John didn't enjoy his work. On this bright Wednesday morning in the Oak Room, John waited. In this place, as he sat in a desk chair, foot on the mahogany desk, moving back and forth staring at the ceiling, he looked to any person bored; the truth was that he was entrapped in his head, thinking again and again.

His situation was complicated. Well, from his point of view, it was. Because he had heard nothing about Paul, since the last time he came sick to his flat. Six days ago. He had counted. It was worrisome. Only to him.

On his desk rested an opened biography of Little Richard. Barely half-read.

When Ringo had arrived Monday, at two in the afternoon, beatific smile on his face as if he came home from a good fuck, John had been seething in his loneliness. Apart from the classic recriminations such as “where were you” “what were you doing” “I could have died of hunger”, he didn’t reproach him of more, until he mentioned the chef’s name and his “little homofriendly quest” during the service — he was being mean but he deserved it, you will understand. Accordingly, Ringo had preferred to help a rude and dirty hippie chef in “distress” — served him right the bastard — instead of bringing food to his beloved flatmate who generously housed him and his doubtful decorating talent. Alright. Why not. Ringo was a generous, gentle, compassionate man, a bit too much for his own good, but he could grasp why he would assist such a random stranger. But That Chef? That rude blunt probably high as a kite half the time chef who dared to fool him? That caused him to believe with his impassivity and silence that Paul wouldn’t see him because he was a meat-lover? And no it wasn’t John’s fault for believing him, could the voices in his mind, spectators of his story, stop judging him? Plus he wasn’t exaggerating. Not one bit. Never. That was so unlike him.

A teenage girl with a Ramones shirt stared at him, a book in her hand. He eyed the title: _Pride and Prejudice_ . He groaned. Not again. Everybody read this book, but did they ever read any others from Jane Austen? No, they didn’t. Never did he sight one take _Emma_. What's more, it wasn’t even that exceptional. Or original. It wasn’t a question of preference. He never insisted for them to read some Mary Shelley instead. Absolutely not. He merely suggested that name to her to make noise. The Oak Room could be so silent, suffocatingly so sometimes.

Now that he had sent her off, where had he been before? He leaned back in his chair, legs outstretched forward, hands locked on his stomach. Ah yes, the rude chef. Why had Ringo helped him now this was a mystery. His pathetic excuse of “but John, any cook would have done the same!”was naively and adorably stupid. No Ringo. No, you were the only one who would have thought that. Plus it wasn’t like John didn’t tell him the chef was a prick. He had been extremely explicit about that. So much, that Ringo disapproved. That was the most hilarious moment of it all. Ringo dared to say that he, John, the most perceptive man of whole Liddypool, had misjudged the “kind”, “humourous”, “honestly good” chef of Hot Chillies. Oh please, as if George, Harrrrrrison, could be friendly, when he had been so blatantly and frustratingly cruel to him while he had been vulnerable! This had been a terrible joke. Adding to all this, now that Ringo had befriended him, he had his phone number! While he, John, had known Paul for three weeks and was left empty of any personal information. This was dreadfully ironic. Somewhat funny, somehow bitterly.

On his work desk was a green colored paper folded in half with an unfinished sketch. Around others, it looked lonely without hazel gleaming eyes, a pointy cute nose, cupid’s bow lips. So, he took his pencil, hunched over the paper, and drew them. As the grey strokes shaped Paul’s face, he had to be honest with himself; it was the only thing he had been able to draw today. And yesterday. And the day before. Here, it was him, in his oversized soaked hoodie, and a proud grin of accomplishment, accompanied with his droopy tired — yet so much more alive than his — eyes. He missed him.

He hated himself for how utterly disgustingly soft he had become.

This was the worst in all of this: Ringo didn’t ask for when would Paul return. It had been his real mission: he forgot. He would have thought that Ringo would fix his mistake and ask George, since he had his number: he forgot too.

He sighed. Ringo was the most understanding and peaceful man he knew. He couldn’t be furious at him. Probably never could he be.

This was why, under his desk, in a plastic bag, remained a David Bowie black sweater, with an old and worn out notebook. He planned to go to the restaurant on his lunch break and use these as an excuse to check on Paul. On Wednesday, he wasn't doing delivery, but the service inside. Therefore, he would be there. Perhaps flirt a bit, or simply talk, barely see him. But his resolution stood strong. He would go.

Now about the notebook. He had not expected to discover it. When Paul had departed in a hurry Friday evening, and after he asked Ringo to call the restaurant and excuse Paul's delay, he had wandered to their bathroom. On the metal pod that usually supported the shower curtains, was Paul's sweater, here to dry. He had left it behind. John took it and panicked the moment the notebook fell off the sweater's pocket. It landed with a small thud, enough to startle him and drop the sweater. Grumbling because he had two things to pick up off the floor, he had looked closely at the notebook in his hands; unconsciously, he had Paul’s sweater pressed close to his chest. As he had remarked the first time, it was a relatively small notebook, of an A5 size he’d have said, with a leather cover and roughened corners. It was old. On the bottom of the cover, was a date: it was eight years old. What had struck him the first time, were the sheets sticking out in multiple directions, out of the book frame. From what he could evaluate from its date and state, he knew that the deliverer hadn’t wished to be separated from this sketchbook; hundreds of pages had been added. It was a miracle it all remained fixed together, the book of a significantly robust quality and resilience. A lifetime in a book. But he hadn’t opened it. No. For once, he was sincere. Nor did he wish to open it. Because John had filled numerous sketchbooks in his life, with secrets of his soul flowing through poems and songs, images of his mind running on papers, and thoughts scribbled in colors, parts of his core. They were a gate to a person’s feelings, opinions, to their authentic self. To be granted the permission to unlock its world, was an honor to adore. John wished to obtain that sacred permission from Paul. He would not taint it with a blasphemous curiosity and morbid prodding. Patience.

The sketch he had completed was serene. More than he could ever be.

Taking a longing look at the clock, he perked up: in five minutes, he was off to his lunch break. He was off to Paul.

So he waited.

And when the clock ticked to noon, John was the first out, plastic bag in hand, leather jacket over his black and white Elvis shirt. Ready for a fifteen minutes walk to Hot Chillies.

For fifteen interminable minutes of avoiding crowds, bumping into overly cheerful kids, angry or hungry traffic, waiting on sidewalks up until he got impatient, he thought of his words. He hadn't figured out yet if he would see Paul. Had he recovered from his service in the rain? Would he be there, waiting by the entrance, his habitual politeness and professionalism shining through his manners and speech? Or perhaps, remnants of a cold sickness would mark his eyes with darkened shadows and pale hazel tones. Worry for his delivery lad’s condition occupied the voices of his mind; excitement or hope directed his steps to the restaurant, faster than his own shifting moods. Without noting the changing environment, without lifting his head up at the few annoyed elders telling him to watch where he was going, without watching where he was going, he had gotten dangerously close to the restaurant. To Paul. The growing nervousness rising like the sun to blind his mind happened to be the sole indication to his imminent arrival. Reaching the door of the restaurant, with its flashy red sign screaming “Hot Chillies” for the whole street, he regretted it; he wished he had been slower. The glass doors stood proud and intimidating. They weren’t taunting him; they were scorning — “you don’t have a chance.” Through them flashed a pair of long legs disappearing behind a counter. As his eyes travelled upwards, he caught a glimpse of the one he longed to see: Paul. Rummaging through papers in a moderate tempo, as though for the first time, the service had been kind to him, and he was in no hurry. That was all that could be distinguished, as John stilled, outside, under the clouds of the skies and the roars of his mind. Staring. Waiting.

He had wished to see Paul. He had been concerned. He still was. And he still hoped that something was there, feeble yet warm, between them. His insecurity was trying to immobilize him.

The moment this crossed his mind, his eyes went round for a second, before furrowed brows and squared jaw painted his determination. This wouldn’t do. He was going this instant.

The doors weren’t imposing anymore, and they easily retreated under John’s resolved decision.

One foot inside and Paul had already looked up. Hazel eyes lit up. Melodious voice yet strong intimidating stance greeted him.

“John! Hi!”

He was here, chest pushed forward under a black t-shirt, in the center of the entrance, the sole thing that John perceived. Surrounded by dark grey from the counter and the wall behind him, red and orange tints from the decoration on the ceiling, and ruby waves from the main room, he appeared like a vision. He seemed completely healed, recovered, and as vigorous as ever. Relief drenched his body, and he allowed his lips to quirk up. As he was going to greet him back, he was halted by the same man who had trapped his mind.

"Is your flatmate here? I have to thank him!" a hopeful look in his hazel eyes. Though John was momentarily taken aback by the question. His worst flaw surged with building speed, and all of his self-control tried to prevent its frenzied ascension to his heart: his jealousy. He contained his hurt. It might have been excessive after all.

"Hem… No? Why?"

"Because George finally has a friend other than me!” he gushed out, as if he was barely recovering from such news. “Do you know how long I tried to get him outside and meet other people and he always said no? And Ringo just came and helped him, and- and since then George can't seem to shut up about him!" That was a common point between those two cooks then."God do you realize he finally has more than five contacts on his phone?"

At this, John couldn’t help it. He guffawed. Served him right, that prick.

“Oh god really?”

“Yes!” Paul laughed with him. “He’s got his family, me, and Ringo!”

“Not even Krishna or another Indian guru? Poor boy.”

That was it, Paul and he were lost.

This was so foolish and if he was honest, a bit mean, but the laughter was so welcomed he let it fill him wholeheartedly. They were in the middle of the entrance, not caring about what others had to see. Enjoying themselves. Leaning on the counter, while Paul was on the other side, he allowed his tension to disappear. He felt better now. He had been right to halt his jealousy from overwhelming him. He breathed. As his laughter died down, he could hear Paul’s giggles, poorly hidden behind his mouth. It was a clear sound, joyful but modest. He wished it didn’t stop. With a finger he rubbed his eye, letting out a contented sigh. The man straightened, smiling at him. It seemed he had finally grown warmer to John, not putting on his professional mask in front of him. Not veiling his emotions for fake smiles and polite nods. A real face of a myriad of expressions. John wanted to witness them all. If he didn’t give up on his quest, perhaps he would.

When they both completely recovered, Paul initiated the conversation.

“Anyway, you wanted to eat something?I’ll lead you to a table.”

"No no! That’s not what I’m here for actually I-” 

Why the fuck didn't he say yes??? 

But he couldn’t tell he had been worried and mostly wished to check on him. Not so soon. He still had to maintain a feeble pride in front of Paul. So he remembered the burden he carried from the library to this place. “I came here to bring you back your sweater.”

Paul was going to reply, with a thanks and a nod, as the bag passed from John's hands to his. But John interrupted him.

"And your notebook."

Bag in hand, Paul frowned. John knew what thoughts ran through his mind. He would have had the same. The equal worry that any owner of a notebook had. Did they open it? Did they enter the sacred temple of their personality and history? Was the book desecrated for eternity? Such questions ran through Paul’s mind, appearing through his eyes; John understood them all. He lived such moments in the past, but never with a book filled with hundreds of perhaps sketches, entries, poems, dreams. It was Paul's solely.

"I didn't open it,” he added, for once with Paul appearing all the more serious. “I know such books are private. Don't worry I understand and wouldn't have done it."

Paul hummed; a rough sound, full of suspicion, but acknowledging him. However, he still went through the book, scanning most of the pages, flying to each, stopping randomly, lifting his head to look him straight in the eyes, emotions invisible, before diving back in the secrets locked behind the cover. He seemed overly pensive. Not entrusting him. Or perhaps he was believing in him, but he needed this proof, this sole truth, that he hadn't lied, that he could be trusted, that if Paul exposed his heart, he could rely on him. It was far-fetched, he knew, but John needed this hope. He needed to believe that, with this simple act, he gained a larger place in Paul's heart. So he stood strong, serious, but not closed off, letting himself be inspected by Paul's scrutinizing gaze. At one point, he had attained the end of the notebook. He stared at John: he didn't recognize what he was looking for, but he seemed to find it. For he shut his book and smiled. John felt like sinking in relief in the nearest chair. But it was short-lived. Paul feigned to read the book again, with an exaggerated pensive expression. He marked a pause.

"... you didn't leave any cute note in it?" He asked innocently. John's heart skipped a beat.

"You would have liked it?" The words rushed out of his mouth. He had pressed his whole body to the counter, fingers gripping it, shock on his face. He couldn't believe what he had just heard. He couldn’t fathom yet what it implied.

"Well…” he paused with a pout. The suspense was tormenting John. He had to watch and hear the subject of his infatuation shrug: "Maybe next time.” 

A wink to his way. A next time. That was the first time Paul mentioned a next time. The first time he was, dare he say it, flirting back. Or perhaps he was looking too far into things, perhaps he wanted more, and he was projecting. But that wink. That promise. How could he overlook these signs? There was a sparkle in Paul’s eyes, something he hadn’t witnessed before. Something that caused his heart to hasten, that made his thoughts a jumbled mess. An infectious spark.

If Paul was flirting, that meant he could be responsive to his. Not a chance to miss.

Hastily he took the papers that Paul had been rummaging through. He snatched a quarter of a sheet, seized a pencil, and started writing. A frenzy of movements on the paper. And a determined "why wait so long?", that made him probably look like a maniac. The whole scene made him appear like a maniac. A proper lunatic. Some clients saw this happening from the glass doors; they never entered subsequently. He couldn’t even remember what he wrote on it afterwards: a vague poem, a bribe of an unfinished song, a possible caricature of himself, a jolly face on a corner of a page; anything, he didn’t know. His pencil had slipped away from his control. Disconnected from his mind. Thinking on his own. Under Paul’s puzzled gaze, it was encouraged. When it was finished, when it was passed to Paul’s hands, he didn’t know what he had written. He could loosely recall a round shape with two circles for eyes and mid-length hair — so he had likely drawn his own face — with a bubble filled with an unreadable text, surely filled with his usual wit and quirky humor. Or perhaps had he gone for poetry. Who knew what was written in that bubble, except for Paul, who was contemplating it with an amused smile. He held the truth to his creation. The sole judge of it all. He himself couldn’t.

Soon however, a giggle escaped from a poorly hidden mouth, fleeing through the fingers that had tried to veil it to John. It was good. It had worked.

The persons that were following the event from up until now were smiling and squeaking, cheering John on. For once the voices were joyful. It was rare. It felt good.

So, him puffing out his chest, bottom lifted up, propping his chin on a closed fist, smirk dancing on his thin lips, and peering up from his glasses, wasn’t a surprise, for the man radiated cockiness. Which was thoroughly John: to feel like a God after feeling miserable for hours was something he considered ordinary. Let him be God Lennon. Nobody was allowed to ruin his fun. When Paul lowered his eyes to him, he was blushing, but had these curved lips, that moms and dads had when they heard their child misspell a word, but they had too much affection to correct them, and giggled, keeping the truth of the sudden tenderness on their faces to themselves. It was the beginning. John was worming his way into his deliverer’s heart.

He mustered the huskiest voice he had, knowing he had to take the power now.

"... so now it's your turn, pretty boy. Where is my cute note?" he said as he wiggled his eyebrows playfully. He earned a snort from Paul, one that meant “oh really?”. As he shook his head, he put away the note in his mysterious book. The book was then safely tucked away in the plastic bag that contained the Bowie sweater. However, when he looked back at John, it was as if he had completely recharged. Let John elaborate: Paul’s whole demeanor straightened and strengthened, in front of John’s eyes. He was looking at him from above, round chin raised up, grin taking on a smug turn, arched brows up in the sky. His usual intimidating stance, but this time not closed off or polite. Whether it was worrisome or not, remained an enigma.

"Well, what about a sketch of another pretty boy then?"

John’s fist slipped from his chin to the counter, curious.

"And who would that be?"

"The one I'm watching." He answered without an ounce of hesitation. He furrowed his brows. Was there a pretty boy in his line of sight? He turned around. There was nobody. Or he was already gone. Ah, maybe someone who had just sat down at a table then. That would explain it-

"You."

There are times — weekly for some, yearly for others — where your brain had to take a moment, to process everything that just happened. It had to step back, breathe, rethink its life decisions. They occurred when something unfathomable had taken place the instant prior, or if words unheard of were heard. Here it was the case. John had just been called a pretty boy. By Paul.

No, that wasn’t possible, there was a mistake somewhere he hadn’t signed up for this when he planned to charm Paul-

“Now wait a minute I’m not-”

"Paul!” his protests died in his mouth. The roar made him jolt. It came from behind him. He whirled around. “What are you doing?"

It was an old man advancing, probably deep in his mid-fifties. Large, tall, enormous menacing hands. His life must have been quite grey: it colored the man from his hair to his shoes. As if the colors of his life were fading into a sinister or light grey. His eyes were a silver grey, his once brown hair was fading to an iron grey, his stylized beard in a pencil grey, and his clothes were a charcoal grey. All grey. Nothing else but grey. The color of dullness. Yet he walked with an air of importance, posh manners, that John knew too well from his aunt. Energetic. Charming. Understanding eyes and smiles. A sort of fatherly poise. Something John despised.

There was something off in that man, but John couldn’t point it yet. The sole thing he was convinced of was the following; you couldn’t cover yourself in so much grey if you had such a smile.

When he approached the man, he heaved a sigh, as if Paul was a disappointing child.

“Why aren’t you on service my boy? It’s been fifteen minutes since you should have commenced."

The endearing term felt wrong. John cringed.

“No no Sir!" So the man was Paul's superior. His boss certainly. "I was just, informing Mr. Lennon here.”

“I hope there is no problem. Is there, boy?” his boss spoke with a concerned voice, but John couldn't shake off the bad feeling the man gave him. He sounded fake. Judging by Paul's hesitancy and his lowered eyes, he knew the man wasn't as nice and sweet as his speech.

“I- w-well, not at all. I...” Paul's gaze shifted to John. He was nervous. John had barely seen him nervous before — panicked yes. But what was he afraid of? It was just his boss; he could talk to him normally. Yet Paul's eyes were closed off. Till an idea seemed to enter his mind. Hands clasped behind his back, he used his polite and charming voice to respond confidently.

“Mr. Lennon wanted to reserve a table for tonight but feared it might be too crowded. I reassured him that I could book him at a time the service was calmer. That’s all.”

… Wait had John heard that right?

“Oh, that is all, good job Paul.” The boss seemed to fill with… pride? Was it pride? And wait had he been really invited by-.“Then we will welcome you warmly tonight, Mr. Lennon. Will you be accompanied?” the old man talked to him. But John was still too slow to catch up with the two men, and Paul moved on without his consent.

“Oh yes, he and his flatmate will be here, right at 8.30. Isn’t that right, Mr. Lennon?” Shit now he had to talk. Shit Paul was looking at him expectantly. Shit shit shit he still didn't believe what Paul had just done he- “We will be very happy to have you here tonight…”

There wasn't any trace of pleading in his voice. It sounded like a hopeful request. A real want to have John here tonight, at the restaurant. To get to be with him. To smile and laugh with him. To share with John a part of Paul's life. A date.

John nodded. Slowly. Then faster. Then he was saying "yes" repeatedly, five times, unstoppable. Excited. Finally realizing what all of this meant.

Then he shut up and beamed. Paul beamed back. His world felt so light.

The boss clasped his hands in front of him. John jolted once again at the harsh noise. There was an apparent contentment in the grey sharp eyes of the man. But somehow, his mouth didn't curve up. As if for a second he had frowned at the display and couldn't hide it in time.

"Now that this is settled, go back to work Paul."

He whirled around and left them, going through a back door, and not coming out again.

Both he and Paul looked at each other. While Paul heaved a sigh of relief, John was back to beaming. He leant forward, both forearms supporting him, his head close to Paul, under his nose. Smirking. With an air of malice.

“So…” he exaggeratedly rolled out the word. “Is this a date then?”

Paul was gaping at him, looking down at John. A flush crept up his face, barely concealed by folded arms. A poor attempt to close off. It was shattered when it was confronted with John’s overpleased expression and dumb chuckles, wiggling eyebrows too funny not to laugh at. Paul playfully shoved him off the counter.

“Perhaps.”

John stood up. A hand ran through his mid-length hair. The smirk never vanished. Drawing his jacket close, he raised his chin, rolling his shoulders.

“Then I’ll see you tonight, Paul.”

Pivoting, with a wave of his fingers, he moved to the door, an extra thrust of his hips before going out. Oh for once he was satisfied. He had enjoyed this. But, as his grip had slipped to the door, he was halted.

“Wait!” It was Paul. Still in front of the doors, he looked at him. For a second, his deliverer had remained immobile. Lips parted in wonder, as if he faced a lovely sight. Staring at John. Sunrays were all around him. John’s forehead creased. He cleared his throat to rouse him. At the noise, Paul jumped, shook his head, and had landed back to Earth. “Let me go fetch your shirt. It’s-”

“Keep it!” John interfered with a dismissive wave of his hands. And as soon as these words were out, he was also out. His feet took him outside, and he was leaving Paul behind.

He texted Ringo, telling him they had somewhere to go tonight. Once that was done, he walked away to his work. His head was in the clouds. Up there, dreaming, as he was grinning all the way to the library. He was thinking about everything that happened. Paul's flirting, the drawing he had made for him, Paul calling him pretty, Paul inviting him to the restaurant for tonight. His smiles, his eyes, his laugh. Everything. It was all too good to be true. But it was. All of this had just happened because of a notebook. Now he had a date.

John didn't know how this would go. He knew however that he would panic soon, plan this out over and over again, for in the end, just going with the flow. But for now, he was happy. He had to be. He had a date tonight. He had to be prepared.

Tonight, he would seduce his love, or be seduced.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 5_ **

(~4800 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... things are moving forward hehe  
> Thank you for reading ! Dont hesitate to leave a comment to tell me what you liked (or not)!  
> I hope to see you all next friday for the next chapter!  
> Until then, take care 💙 have a beautiful night or day !


	6. When The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse on the preparation for tonight's date, both on the flat side and the restaurant side; a discussion about Ringo's dubious fashion sense, and Paul's new nickname. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, this is a filler chapter. I couldn't conceive to just jump into the date lol. So I will understand if you guys like it less (and that there is less comment). I've got lots of stressful work, so I couldn't rush the writing either.  
> Though, even though it was a filler chapter it was very fun to write; so I hope it is equally fun to read !  
> Oh and also I've added my discord in the end notes if anyone wants to idk ask smth or chat ? Idk lol  
> Now I wish you a nice read ^^

When John arrived at his flat, he screamed twice.

One, the moment he closed the door as he was home at fifteen past seven in the afternoon, and he remembered he had a date tonight. That was when he screamed in the entrance, fists pressed to his chest, an excited grin on his face.

Two, the moment he got to the living room and he saw Ringo lazily lying down on their couch like a gigantic octopus, half asleep, with a horrible fluorescent blue and green spiral tie-dye t-shirt. There was even drool on the corner of his mouth. He looked absolutely not presentable. They were supposed to go in an hour. That was when he screamed the second time.

"Ringo! Get your lazy ass up right this instant!"

From the black couch Ringo jumped up. Dazed, blinking at nothing, he had fallen off the couch and was on his knees on the floor: confused. But John had no time to waste. Oh, he was already sufficiently delayed. They both had to be prepared for tonight. He wasn't going to wait for him. Therefore, he threw a sharp "get dressed" before leaving for his room. Nerves were starting to frizzle.

Once in his room, he opened his dressing and dove in it. How would he dress? There were so many options possible, that he didn’t know which one to conduct. The goal, however, remained the same: seduce Paul. Make his eyes glue to him. Crack a dazzled smile on his face. But oh would it be hard! What to bear for such events! He wished to appear casual, but not too loosely; he desired to be classy, but not poshly so; he yearned to be himself, to the extent he tolerated.

For it was a complex task, the one of gathering clothes to charm, when you thought you were the contrary of it.

None of that now, no: the voices of denigration of his own self were thrusted to the deepest part of his mind by a fierce and determined stronger vocal organ. It took the lead. John felt a surge of confidence engulf his body, and with renewed vigor, he rummaged through jackets, shirts and trousers. He would find them. The perfect match. The other voices wouldn’t win. Not tonight.

After all, wasn’t it Ringo who said that confidence was the most charming trait?

He dug out three shirts, two jackets, a pair of trousers and socks. Laid them all on his bed. Stared at them. The flared trousers were of a cotton white, same for the socks. He flung them on the floor, for he knew he’d wear them. He hesitated between two jackets; the first, a black cardigan, extending to his knees, wide sleeves; the second, a two-button suit jacket, notch lapels collar, silk white. It seemed the second one was an ideal match, but to John, the difference in shades of white were regretful — even if he was the only one who minded it. With a sigh he chose the suit jacket. Promptly, it was up to the shirt. He had taken two white ones, and one black; the last one was eliminated directly. The last two represented a tricky choice, for it didn’t concern the type of shirt; he had to choose a band. If he had taken back his Bowie shirt during his lunch break, instead of telling Paul to keep it, he would have known what to wear. But now he was stuck, between a stressful choice. Settling on the wrong band could ruin everything. He didn’t exaggerate one bit; he had seen the flames of passion in Paul’s eyes when they had spoken of music. It was significant. It was crucial to this date. On his right, a Bob Dylan shirt. Cream white in the background, a square blue frame in the middle, Bob Dylan posing in the foreground, in black and white, glasses on, superior, grand. His name was inscribed at the bottom. It was one of John’s favorite artists, for he admired his lyricist talent, accompanying his folk music. On his left, a Beach Boys t-shirt. It represented the silhouette of a surfer, behind a red and yellow simplified wave, spiraling around the man and melting with the surf. On the top of the design, the band’s name was noted in blue; on the bottom, 1983 tour. While John wasn’t a loyal fan of the band and had gotten the shirt from a friend, he still appreciated their songs and melodies, harder than they could appear. But what would Paul prefer? It was a tough decision to make, a terrible one. If he wore the Bob Dylan, and Paul despised it, what would he do? Take it off ? — now John didn’t mind it that much, but he’d rather do this with Paul in his bedroom. Ultimately, the Beach Boys shirt was prettier. It was cheerful yet relaxing; original yet funny. With one last glance to the other shirt, he took the Beach Boys, hoping not to have remorses later on.

Finally, he dressed with all the clothes he had chosen, and the results were far from disheartening him. He would indeed dare admit he looked dashing. All in white. White flared trousers, white suit jacket, white Beach Boys t-shirt. That achieved, he popped to the bathroom. After a quick deodorant sprayed all over himself — faster than a shower — he stared at his reflection in the mirror: his mid-length hair was a mess, shaggy and curly on the edge, and his glasses were stained. He ran the tap and washed his round glasses, till they shone brilliantly. Back on his aquiline nose, he could better observe his hair. It wasn’t tangled, but it wasn’t straight either. No matter how much he tried to stroke it into a feeble normal mass of auburn hair, it didn’t work. Fighting streaks of hair, and losing a few of them, he practically gave up, declaring to the world that he had lost, he’d end up hating his hair. Until he saw a rubber band on the sink. Suddenly it wasn’t so desperate. There was something left to try. Rubber band in his left hand and hair in his right, he made a low ponytail, leaving two streaks hanging in front. He glimpsed at the result; it was sufficient enough to save his earlier disastrous hairstyle. The auburn color of his hair was slightly dimmed, but it was alright. The second step was over; only a pair of sneakers left, and he would be ready for his date.

He took one last long look at himself; he didn’t loathe it. It was a rare occurrence.

On his phone, the time he had left: forty minutes.

He walked to the living-room, to retrieve the pair of white converse he wore daily. With the time he would have left, he would be able to prepare himself mentally for what was to come. Imagine the possible running of the night. Plan the moment where he could try to have him for himself only. Dream of staying at the end of the service. Staying with Paul. Perhaps could he buy a flower before going- Oh god had he really become that infatuated?

As he was crouched down to tie the laces of his shoes, entranced in his head, eyes staring straight ahead to the wall, back to the rest of the room, he almost skipped the whistle from behind him. A deep, surprised and approving sound.

“Wow! You look good mate!”

John smiled at the compliment; standing up and turning around, he was going to thank his flatmate. Until he had to face the horrible tie dye shirt again. His eyes burnt: Ringo hadn’t moved one bit during all the time he took to prepare.

Steady your nerves John.

“Ringo, why aren’t you dressed?” he asked, in a somewhat patient tone. Ringo only blinked at him, with a confused frown. Next he looked at himself, up and down.

“But I am?”

John stared. It was true he was dressed, but terribly so. Because you had only heard of the tie dye green and blue spiral shirt, but there was more. The rest wasn’t better. He wore sky blue cuffed jeans that were ripped at the knees, eight golden rings on his fingers and the worst of it all: his octopus sneakers. To perceive exactly what they were like, you had to imagine a pair of rather expensive and good-looking white sports sneakers, that a kid thought to be a nice canvas and therefore decided to paint on them. That was exactly what happened to them. John wouldn’t have minded, if the art produced had been delightful or extraordinary: not a red octopus, with tentacles reaching the front of the shoe and big yellow eyes, with blue dots for bubbles all around. This was a big flat no. No, you didn’t do that to sneakers. No. Ringo was absolutely not going out like that.

“Ringo you are not going out like that.”

“... Cause we’re going out?”

“Ringo the fuck! I texted you at lunch! We’re going to the restaurant!” John shouted, patience running thin, foot stomping. Ringo blinked again, before pointing to his own face.

“Me too? But I thought it was your date?”

John massaged his temples. No, he wouldn’t snap. He promised it to himself. He would answer honestly. Without losing his temper. He could do this.

“Well your hippie chef will be there, so consider it as a date for you too,” he admitted, as if it was unpleasant to talk of that chef. “Now come on.”

He seized Ringo’s wrist and hauled him up. They rushed to his bedroom. There, John scoured through his dressing, for something more presentable. But it was a complex mission; there were too many colors; a colorful lad. Between rainbow clothes, disco pants, old jeans, and other weird clothes, there was one black suit, probably not having been worn for a long time. When he displayed it to Ringo, he was answered with a hurried shake of his head. Fine. Nevertheless when Ringo remarked “what about me pink suit?” John cringed. Absolutely not that. Never again. No.

They settled on straight black trousers, a red button shirt, and a black short jacket. John waited outside the room for his flatmate to change. Simultaneously, he had to hear Ringo’s philosophical and introspective pondering on what John had implied when he stated he also had a date with George. It was a joke, but he should have known his poor flatmate’s brain would be turning and turning, trying to grasp that fact, comprehend it, turn it again, for in the end, not believing it because, John quoted: “who would want lil big nosed me hum?” — next he’d chuckle. Which always infuriated him: to John, Ringo was the nicest, kindest, sweetest lad ever, supporting anyone, anytime, and damn if kindness wasn’t hot!

“But there’s nothing between me and George you know…” Ah! Here they were! the doubts. Classic. John snorted. He could imagine him fumbling with his buttons as he stood embarrassed. “You think there could be something? I don’t know... He’s nice and sweet, and he cooks well. But he’s very mysterious too, and much cooler than me… Well I-I wouldn’t mind, but I don’t think he’d-”

“The only thing I know is that George likes ya, according to Paul,” he cut it short, for he knew which path Ringo had been about to take, and he refused it. Better tell him now. “Now shut up and hurry please.”

“... ok then.” 

Then nothing. Sounds of someone walking around. But that was it. John relaxed. He used the silence to quiet his mind. It was good. He would do fine. Tonight was their night. He had been looking forward to this for so long; he wouldn’t screw it.

On his phone, the time shone radiantly. Twenty minutes left.

Ringo came out of the room. The clothes fitted him perfectly. He looked handsome, no matter how much Ringo didn't think so. It was a beautiful outfit for a beautiful person. Except for one thing, that John noticed. He frowned at the provocation. First, he had cuffed his trousers, so everyone could see his yellow disco boy socks. It was already critical enough, but there was another more significant problem.

“... Ringo.”

“Yes?”

“... Why did you keep the octopus sneakers on?”

“No John I’m keeping them.”

With a sigh, he let it go. Ringo needed colors after all. Beside, he looked satisfied with his octopus on his feet.

At long last, it was time to leave. They were in front of the door. As John was seeking his keys, his excitement started to escape his feeble control. He was shaking and grinning, opening the door. He was rambling about all the dreams he had about tonight; his hopes, his fantasies; desires of a heart that had missed the feeling of love for far too long.

“Do you realize that things can get serious after tonight? That we could become a thing? That-”

“That if things get serious with Paul, he might have to face your aunt. Soo-”

“Bah! Later Ringo; too soon to think about that." He brushed it off, not wanting to think about his aunt, or her possible rejection, or of his future with Paul — if there would be one. They were outside, and he closed the flat door. "Tonight I wanna have fun, not think about that.”

Ringo patted his back, with an understanding smile. Kind Ringo.

“Alright then. Let’s go see your date, now shall we?”

“And yours too,” he added with a sly smirk. But the lad didn’t answer him as he would have liked: a shrug, ducking his chin in his chest. Not that insecurity again.

“Not sure about that…”

“Come on son, that’s not like ya to be negative!” he declared in a boastful posh voice, circling his shoulders with his arm. “Don’t worry. I have a feeling this will be a good night!”

And as he said this, pointing to the ceiling, they were on their way, to the restaurant. To George. To Paul.

***

“George, I can feel it, it’s going to be a good night!” Paul had told him, just after the lunch service. That had been before his nerves went wild, and he recognized what all of this signified, and he definitely wasn’t prepared.

Six o’clock: Paul was setting the tables for the evening service; one in particular. In the back of the restaurant, in a recluse booth, was a rectangular table with two cushioned benches, red, orange and black. Candles covering the table, Indian tablecloth and napkins, in accordance to the dimmed lights of the whole room. The charcoal-colored walls under the ruby and cream roof put a mysterious mood to the restaurant. Paul was putting the cutlery and the last details to this table. During the afternoon, he had gone to a flower shop and bought a bouquet of flowers blooming in May; pale lilacs, orchids and daffodils. It was at the far end of the table. From the counter, he would be capable of observing it and the person sitting next to it. It was a strategic choice, of course: he wanted to keep an eye on his guests tonight. After all, it would be John and Ringo's table.

He finally placed a small "reserved" card, for 8.30. It would be in two hours and a half. He hoped he would still be presentable at that moment and not an exhausted sweaty mess. He had put extra attention to his outfit tonight. Ordinarily, when he was the waiter for the night, he would wear black tight trousers, a basic shirt or pullover. Neutral. But tonight, he couldn't explain why but he had wished to be… how to say it, classier than usual? To impress. To charm, with more than just a pretty smile. With his black trousers he wore a white buttoned long sleeves dress shirt; a black suit vest, pressed to his chest, fitting his form, and a black bowtie; shiny black shoes from his dad. He felt a bit constricted under the narrow garments. But he hoped it would be worth it. Worth what? he didn't know. In all honesty, he had no idea what he expected of tonight. Nor did he know the reasons as to why he had decorated that table particularly, or why he was styled like that, or why he had even brushed his hair again and again to make it look a pretty moptop, and not his puffy hair.

He liked the man, but wasn't it all a short infatuation? A crush that wouldn't last long, that shouldn't last long. But, perhaps… He shouldn't worry so much. He shook his head to clear his mind. He would follow tonight's events and think later. He would remain professional until the end of the night: unless in his company… god and now he was entertaining unprofessional thoughts! This night was messing with his head!

He walked back to the counter, where he could see George leaning on it with a smirk. At least, with him he could breathe. He could get back this sense of normalcy he craved.

When George had seen him, dressed so properly, he had entitled him a "charming bowtie daddy." He had asked, "What's that?"and was answered with a "that's you, and I think John will agree."

So now he had been dubbed "bowtie daddy" by all his colleagues for the night. That still made him confused. But he guessed it meant he looked good.

When he reached the counter, he had kicked himself out of his head and was nodding to George. He joined his side, as he looked for a notepad for the service. He retrieved it and set it in his pocket. Straightening, he gladly accepted the glass of water George offered. The cold liquid cooled him down, and it was a highly welcomed sensation. He had tried to disregard it, but his nerves were visible physically; he was clumsier, fidgeting, and he kept playing with his fingers or biting his nails. In the past, his parents used to reprimand him every time he’d get a nail too close to his mouth: that was a long time ago; he didn’t know why he remembered that at that present moment. What would his mom think of him now? Would she know how to help? He could picture her in his head, praising a studious and hard-working boy, assuring him he had this. An unpleasant squeeze in his chest. He still missed her. But he wished to keep the memories alive. It would always comfort in the dark moments of the night, when he would wake up, feeling disoriented and resigned; nothing to do, nothing to live. Nothing special. Nothing.

Suddenly, a shove to his side; roughly elbowed, he sputtered and bent in half, holding his side in an offended gasp. He turned indignant glaring eyes to his smirking mate. The sneaky chef barely looked at him.

“What was that for?”

“You were too anxious again.”

Paul huffed out. Why, wasn't he allowed to be anxious in peace anymore? He elbowed his friend back the moment he started drinking again; he sputtered too and Paul snickered too. The people who said revenge didn’t feel good were outrageous liars.

“And what was that for?”

“For not having dressed up properly for tonight.”

Because, until now, Paul had been focused on how he put all his efforts to fancy up. None of his colleagues had. Especially George. The lad under no circumstances, did, except on rare occasions for family gatherings, or when he was on an internship in posh restaurants; otherwise, he wouldn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford it; he just didn’t care. It was one of those material things that George ignored. Every so often, his mate would come wearing the first clothes he had found in the morning, not bothering. Today was no different. It was a cool outfit, of course; only not classy, or even slightly professional. Black sneakers; beige linen yoga baggy trousers; tight white shirt ending to his elbows, with the Om Hindu symbol trapped in an abstract light yellow flower in the middle; his white apron, partially hiding the symbol; necklace; hair untied; typically George. The chef looked at his attire, up and down, and shrugged.

“Now why would I have? Tell me,” he inquired. Paul smirked.

“For Ringo.”

George threw his head back, laughing aloud, as he shoved him again playfully. It was his rough, loud laugh, free, echoing in the room, making Paul grin.

“Damn it Paul! Are you gonna try to marry me already or what?”he managed to say between two cackles.

“Maybe?” he snorted back, to George’s amused bewilderment. The chef shook his head, with his infectious laughter.

“You’re worse than me mom! Both wanting me to get someone. Unbelievable.”

His shoulders were still vibrating with the remnants of his glee. Consequently, Paul kept going with the joke.

“But George it’s for your own good,” he added in a fake posh womanly voice, hands to his chest in a praying gesture. “Otherwise who will bring the money in the household?”

They looked at each other for a moment, paused.

“... but he probably earns less than me, mom.”

“... then that's not a good husband for you George.”

And that was all it took to make them collapse into a frenzied laughter again, supporting each other as best as they could, while they guffawed and giggled. They didn’t notice their colleagues stopping to see what was happening, then ignoring their antics; nor did they hear their boss pecking out of his office to see the commotion, before retreating back. They were fortunate the service hadn’t started yet, so they could climb off their high slowly and securely. Their laughter died down for light chuckles, their breaths returned to normal, and they straightened up. George was rubbing a tear off his eye, while Paul hid his delayed chuckles with his hand. Next they both moved to the kitchen. As Paul leaned in the doorframe, he watched George clear up his stations for the service, with a warm smile on his face. He was tidying his utensils when he spoke again.

“I just said I liked him, though. Not more yet.”

“Yet!” Paul repeated loudly with a finger in the air. “But you said he was pleasant, kind, lovely, and I quote: “a literal angel”.”

George lowered his head, with another shrug.

“So what? Not everybody gets infatuated with someone in less than a week Paul.”

He decided to ignore the jab.

“Well I never heard you say that about anyone else. And you have been texting him non-stop since then! Do you know the last time I received a text from you George? On your birthday.”

“You’re exaggerating.” But the deadpan look he was confronted halted his protest. He sighed, a pan in his hand, staring at it with longing eyes, as if it would show him the tormentor of his heart. “Just wait, Paul. The lad seemed a bit insecure. Give it time. Maybe then…”

He didn’t finish. He had trailed off, but when his gaze focused again, he was back to his work. Ingredients that had been prepared earlier were lining the tables, and desserts were checked. His utensils were in order. Jacob, the kitchen help, wasn’t far, preparing on the other side. Paul wasn’t moving. He didn’t have to prepare. Not that he was ready: his nerves were building up, and he felt the urge to bite his nails again. He had terrible anxiety. Therefore, he obeyed his urges. He was staring at nothing, as he bit his nails. Until George’s voice snapped him out of his stressful reverie.

"You, on the other hand, are going too fast with that lad."

Paul scoffed, folding his arms on his chest.

"Even if I wasn't, you wouldn't like it you know. I don't know how you managed to judge him when you saw him for what ? 10 minutes?" he said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Well he judged me too." George replied nonchalantly. Throwing a cloth on the station, he looked at him seriously. "I'm convinced something is gonna go wrong with him. But I know I can't stop you from being attracted to him. So just, be careful. Ok?"

They had nothing else to say. Paul nodded. It was understood. He had to be.

The service began as he left the kitchen. It was half past six now. It would be long before he arrived. But he plastered a smile on his face and greeted the first clients, as if he wasn’t nervous, as if he expected nothing, as if John would represent a new client, as if he hadn’t admitted to himself he was attracted to him. However, before it all, he checked in his pocket; a folded sheet of paper was in there. He was relieved, for it was his savior for the night: what he would gift to John tonight.

He moved aimlessly, on automatic, used to a job he had for more than a year, used to clients with faces he wouldn’t recall tomorrow. Time flew, but he didn’t notice it. In the back of his head was John.

So, at half past eight, he was breathless as he finally saw him. They entered the restaurant. Paul’s mind was lost, confused to what to do, frozen in front of what was bound to happen. But his body moved without his head, and soon, he found himself in front of them; he only had eyes for John, dressed up so beautifully, so flawlessly. All in white. Pure. Innocent, but self-assured. Confident. His hardened features with his soft eyes, under the round glasses he was fond of. Hair in an adorable ponytail. A Beach Boys shirt on, one of his favorite bands. He looked simply dashing. He had no words. He didn’t think anymore. He was trapped in the moment. Trapped in the man’s presence. He seemed caught too. Frozen.

As always, in moments where it was too much, he simply turned everything off, and let his professionalism take over. So, with a tilt of his head, he welcomed them in the restaurant.

“Welcome gentlemen. Let me lead you to your table.”

WIth that sentence, the date had begun.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 6_ **

**_(~4400 words)_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh you know what happens next week, hehe. It's a big chapter that's in the work, so be prepared!  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, let me know if you did or not.  
> And as always, I hope you stay safe during these rough and stressful times we're living. Take care, and I hope I managed to make you smile for a second with this chapter.  
> Peace and love ✌❤


	7. Whatever Gets You Thru The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The date finally happens. Will it be a turning point of the story? Starring more awkward and terrible flirting, poor sweet hearted Ringo with his great shoes, a bit of information about George, and an important question. It's a long night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow you guys.... just wanted to thank you for the number of comments last time like- it was just a filler chapter and it's one of the chapter that got the more comments ! Wow  
> I hope you will love this as much as you liked the last chapter, and please let me know if you did!  
> I dont want to make you wait any longer, so please have fun reading this ^^ (I srsly hope you do I'm nervous hehehe)

When John sat, he couldn't look at him.

Tall long legs in tight smoky dark trousers had greeted him at the entrance, and he felt faint. He had ducked his head and followed him wordlessly, letting Ringo first. The coward: he had thought he was mentally prepared, but he wasn’t; confronted with the reality of the situation, he failed. The rest of the room had been a blur, as he focused on the confident and solemn steps ahead of him. In front of the table, he had still not looked up; he caught a glimpse of two calloused cream-colored hands peeking out of white narrow cufflinks. As he lowered himself to his seat, Ringo facing him, his downward eyes noticed the arrangement of the table: white candles in glass jars, red to yellow napkins and tablecloths of Indian patterns, a flower bouquet of three various shades of white in an ebony vase, and their names written on a reserved card. Was it chiefly for their table, all of this decoration? John couldn’t say. He trailed his eyes on the waist that was slightly leaning forward to pour them each a glass of water. A thin waist trapped in a suit vest that puffed out his chest. He shifted his eyes away again, to see Ringo: the lad sent him an encouraging smile, while he thanked Paul. Menus were soon in their hands; Paul's fingertips brushed his. He was tempted to look up, and he almost did, before he was paralysed as he sighted a bowtie around a clean-shaven neck. He rushed his gaze away, opening the menu and diving inside. His nose was practically grazing it. God, that had been too much.

He heard steps retreating away after Paul had taken their drink orders — that Ringo had done for him. Then steps coming back, pouring a warm beer to Ringo, but smacking John's filled glass on the table. He jolted. The cutlery trembled and clinked. He pulled back from the menu and met Ringo's glaring eyes. When one of his eyebrows shot up in a silent question, Ringo's head hinted to his right. Consequently, John looked to his right; Paul's back — arched due to the smoky vest he wore — was retreating, feet stomping, balled fists on his sides. Oh. So he had made him angry on top of it all. He sent an apologetic smile to Ringo who rolled his eyes before looking through the menu.

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get a grip on himself? Something wasn’t right: before he arrived here, he had been self-possessed, sure of himself, of his look — which was rare enough to mention — of his flow of words and his shimmering charming eyes; where did it all go? He was skinned to a wimp version of himself. An unadventurous lad who sat there mumbling and fumbling. He had barely seen Paul, not daring to observe his face. Nerves that he thought gone weren’t; they had paused until their moment to frizzle and strike. Voices of insecurity and insufficiency rose again in his head. The readers of his life were frustrated. He was all letting them down. Even Ringo.

This had to change. The resolve was made as he ran through the vegetarian section of the menu — he couldn’t order meat in front of Paul. When the waiter would come, he would look at him, and speak to him. He would control himself. He had managed before to allow a determined and confident voice to take over; it was time it overthrown his fears again.

The waiter indeed arrived; footsteps were soon approaching, and Paul was alone doing the service. A click of a pen and paper sheets being turned. Next, Paul’s voice, melodic, yet still so unmoving, so professionally polite yet serious. Ringo gave his order first, so John pretended to be scouring through the menu. Ringo ordered a vegetarian dish; good. At that point the voice spoke to him. It didn’t call him by his name, and its edge got sharper. But it didn’t falter John's resolve. John clapped the book closed. With a dramatic roll of his shoulders, he decisively turned to face Paul and see him. Look at him. And he finally uttered the first words addressed to Paul of the night.

“Oh God. You are so beautiful.” 

He didn’t notice Ringo’s reaction to his flat and free words, for he was solely staring at Paul. Now that he had completely looked, he couldn’t take his eyes off him. Because oh god, was he beautiful. In his tight trousers, his fitting suit vest, his white buttoned long-sleeved shirt, his lovely bowtie, he looked oh so mature and formal. To add to this description, what he had avoided until now: his face. John knew his eyes had widened at the stunning sight: slightly reddened cheeks by the service had fully flushed at John's words; parted heart-shaped lips in unconcealed shock; buttoned nose shining under the light; arched brows up in the sky; minuscule droplets of sweat rolling to his temple from thick dark hair, tousled from the service; droopy eyes wide opened; hazel color sparkling: a breach in his professionalism. It was perhaps the flutter of his lashes or the fiddling of his cufflinks that made John discover what had slipped out of his mouth. Somehow, bold words uttered with no thoughts had repaired his fault, for Paul wasn't upset, but deeply surprised. John felt no shame, no regrets to what he had said, because his words were genuine, and he wished for Paul to hear the truth. It was a peculiar form of greeting, but it had the merit of breaking his torpor. John was here.

“I-I well… Thank you Sir,” Paul managed to say, as he stopped balancing himself from one foot to the other and raising his chin. However, he built his composure back, under John’s relentless proud grin.

“I’m most pleased to see you too,” his whole face warmed up, as he spoke with amusement to John solely. Ringo was ignored. He straightened and clicked on his pen again. “What would you like to eat then?”

He ordered Malai Kofta; he didn't understand Ringo's sudden blush as he heard the name. Paul kindly took the menus and left. The game started.

John couldn’t explain it, but the fears that had bound him in silence were broken, and he was liberated. Free to speak, to look at Paul, admire him from afar, exchange cheeky jokes and flirty sentences, capture his attention as he was serving another table than his. For the rest of their dinner, John was empowered with an old boldness, that he had lost along his way, from the weeks following the end of the band and his dreams, and from the heartbreak that came from the end of his last relationship. It was the daring and impertinent audacity of younger days where he dressed and acted as the coolest and scariest old-school teddy boy of all Liverpool. The effrontery of a middle-class rebel who had sworn to never conform. The adventuresomeness of an once eighteen years old lad playing in his rock’n’roll band, enjoying the rush of every successful gig and the thrill of every moment he was the leader of something. This ancient boldness had been locked away in a part of his brain that had been pained; but, as the dinner passed, it seeped through the lock, crawled to the rest of his mind, and slowly revived. The emptiness that had filled his heart since the day he agreed to his aunt and his ex's harsh truths — about his self, his stupid dreams, his mistakes, and giving up on everything for the life he was now living — was unfogging. He felt young again, daring and insolent. Paul made him feel all of this. This date was bringing his old self back.

So he found himself smirking more, talking more, moving more, excitedly joking more. When Paul walked from table to table, he would stare at him until he turned around, only to wiggle his eyebrows up and down, or make another stupid face and admire Paul refrain himself from laughing or smiling. When he was near their table, he’d utter a “hey” or a “boo” to make him look back at him, and roll his eyes.

When he placed their plates down, asking if they would need anything else, John said “only the waiter”. To this, he would develop both Paul and Ringo’s reactions — poor Ringo, that had to endure his antics: his flatmate slapped his forehead, hiding his face; his waiter blinked, before admitting these quite unbelievable words:

“You mean water? Cause we don’t have “waiter” on our menu, unless-”. He stopped, and thankfully so, because John’s despair had risen sharply at the beginning of the sentence, fearing they were back to the start, where Paul’s professionalism was at his highest point. Fortunately, he had shut his mouth, stared at John’s growing smirk, not blushing but caught aback. Yet, he hadn’t reacted better after his epiphany, for he bluntly told John, as if he spoke to an idiot:

“But I’m not available now, you know.”

… Well duh! Naturally he wasn’t! At this answer his poor flatmate sent the waiter off, telling him it would be all, thankful to die in embarrassment in peace. John had watched Paul’s hasty steps to the kitchen and clumsy hold on his trail. When he turned to his flatmate, he saw his flat hand veiling his eyes; two fingers moved apart so one eye peeked out. As they stared at each other, they burst out laughing. If they had focused on the background noise, they could have heard another barked laughter coming from a pronounced Scouse accent in the kitchen.

On a second note, the food they ate was good. But you'd understand that it wasn't really John's focus; it was more Ringo's.

Another time, John tried once more with a cheeky remark. It was when Paul had taken off their plates and suggested a dessert. John had leant close to the man, chin resting on his clenched fist. He whispered near his ear.

“Well I already have one right in front of me.”

But he hadn’t been capable of enjoying Paul’s reaction, except for the obvious amusement that had danced on his lips, for Ringo had interfered with a rushed “yes can we see the dessert menu?”. Paul was gone with a polite nod. John had glared at his flatmate, vexed.

However, you shouldn’t have thought only John played this game. Oh no; when Paul came back with their desserts later — Gajar Ka Halwa — he delivered a remark of his own cheekiness. He had caught on to what John had meant — which made John wonder for a second, if Paul's slow response to his flirting was really only due to his professionalism or not. Perhaps, there was something hidden there, that made him shrink away from John's poorly seducing attempts. This remark came with their desserts, beautifully presented in their black plates. As they were set in front of each client, John and Ringo started to dig in with gusto. Therefore, John didn’t perceive the waiter coming back to their table, bending in order for his lips to be close to John’s ear, and whisper, loudly enough for Ringo to hear:

“I know it’s not as tasty as the dessert you had in front of you earlier, but I promise you’ll get it back at the end of the service.”

At this both John and Ringo choked on their meal; one flushed in positive surprise, while the other massaged the space between his nose and eyebrows in mortification. John slapped his fork down, eyes darting behind; Paul was already serving another table, as if nothing happened, as if he hadn’t openly responded to John’s flirting, as if he hadn’t just got John all hot and bothered. Maybe he had dreamt it: no one uttered such a sentence and then served a glass of wine to a gentle fatherly grandpa with an angel smile and a little bow. And yet, when the glass was filled, Paul had looked back at him. They stared at each other, for a minute. His face was still heated, and his mouth still agape. Paul seemed completely unbothered, an occurrence that often happened. John’s time and space zoomed in on Paul, and the rest of the clientele blurred, as if his glasses were only made to follow Paul. The waiter’s lips quirked up; John’s automatically did the same. Paul winked; John’s cheeks grew even warmer. So he really said that.

When he whirled back to his dessert, excitement palpable, Ringo seemed as if ready to disappear. He was mumbling something along the lines of: “oh God, they’re terrible”. But John didn’t take it too personally and ate with a goofy smile, heart already full from just a blink of an eye. It had been so long since he got that feeling: his infatuation was slowly morphing to something more.

He couldn’t focus on his dessert anymore. There was only Paul. To Paul, there was only John. He passed by their tables more often, flicking his fingers on the table or on John’s shoulders, and if he was at another table, he glanced in his direction. His eyes always caught his twinkling ones each time. John’s hand supported his cheek, as he watched and acted, winking too, or wiggling his eyebrows once again; anything to keep Paul’s attention in his hands. Everything that made Ringo embarrassed. At one time, he remembered about his flatmate. The poor lad, who had to sit there and watch all of this unfold. Who had been promised a date that he hadn’t seen yet. But John would make sure he went to see George. There were no reasons for him solely to be happy.

This moment arrived when their desserts were eaten and John ordered a tea — after another awkward pick-up line and completely gushing eyes and smiles that made his flatmate look away. He didn’t order anything but said he wished to go. They had come home by foot, and their flat was a five minutes walk away. He had no reasons to stay. But John would have none of that. Not when he recalled what he was averting: George. He wasn’t letting him escape; not when he had had to endure Ringo's praises to that dirty chef for days!

“You can leave," John sighed. But he interrupted his flatmate's movement as he pointed at him. "But before, you go see your chef.”

Ringo slumped back on the cushioned bench.

"I-I don't think I should…" he admitted as he rubbed his arm, eyes shifting from the table to the floor. He was nervously withdrawing from John. He huffed out. If it was because of his damn insecurity — John was the master of "do as I say don't do as I do", and he didn't realise he wasn't much better than Ringo — John swore he would-

Paul was at their table. His train of thought ceased abruptly.

“Oh Ringo!" he said cheerfully, putting John's tea in front of him. He remembered that the moment they entered the restaurant, Paul had thanked Ringo, for his help in the previous service. It was nice, them getting along. But he tried to concentrate on what was being said to Ringo, instead of the melody of the voice and of the words pronounced. "George’s service is practically done, if you wanna go see him. Just to talk, you know."

John jumped on the occasion.

"Yes Rings! Why don't you go have some fun, hum?"

Ringo shot him a swift glare, icy blue eyes that weren't as scary against John's smug grin. His attention was dragged back to Paul as the waiter placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to talk to you," he said with a kind voice, and an encouraging nod. It was a humorous scene: two mature men, trying to convince their friend to go meet his crush — well, not an official crush, Ringo was too slow for such things. A friend first; the rest was sure to come, but not yet; not until Ringo realized George could be interested in him.

At last, his flatmate chuckled as he waved both of his hands in a calming gesture.

"Alright you two. I'm going."

Ringo got up, straightened his red shirt as he played with his ring earring. He gestured him goodbye, and John gave him a thumb up. Walking to the counter, he passed by a door and vanished. Leaving John alone for the risky part of the night.

He didn't wonder about what would happen in the kitchen, nor did he try to imagine their discussion. He sat there, blowing on his tea, waiting for the end of the service. For he knew that when the room would be vacant, except for a few last clients, Paul would come to his table. What would happen, what would they discuss, what would they do, he didn't know. However, he was lonesome with his mind, to think and calm. To prepare himself. To hope and dream.

He blew on his tea again, gazed at the commotion around him. He fled in his head, imagining the lives and stories of the people around him. But when he caught sight of Paul, his brain expanded to a billion paths to take. 

Perhaps, soon he would know the man's life.

His tea burnt his tongue.

***

Ringo was glad to be away from the two lovebirds. Sure they weren't together yet, but with the way they were acting now, it was probably worse. Or he merely didn't wish to appreciate how it would get when they'd become a couple. Because it was clear in his mind that they would. But was it a harmful thing? Not at all. He was completely supporting this. From being aware of John's background, he knew the man needed it, needed him. During this dinner, he finally got his friend back: not the insecure, shy lad, stumbling on words and hating himself for everything he did and everything he was; but the arrogant man who knew his flaws, but didn't let them restrain him from his dreams. The lad who wanted to make it to the top, even though he knew he didn't play guitar properly or even though he thought to have a too coarse singing voice. The boy in leather, who wouldn't let his own self halt him on his way to love and happiness. He was back. After weeks of reluctant flirting and badly hidden self-hate, lack of confidence in front of Paul, and the reminder of his last relationship hanging over his head like a cloud, he was back. Why did the change happen tonight, he didn't know, but the moment he had observed him come out of his room, all dressed in white with a winning smile, confident and dreaming, he had been certain that the leader of the band had returned. So no, to Ringo this wasn't a harmful thing in the slightest. He wished him nothing more than peace and love.

But what about him? What about poor Ringo in his big white octopus shoes? He chuckled lowly, scraping his stubble in absence. Well, Paul and John had already chosen George for him obviously. That had been another memorable moment he had experienced: two grown men desperately pushing him to go to George. The worst was that John didn't like the man! He despised the chef! So why would he help him- no not help, force him to… he didn't even know what he hoped to obtain from that! Why would he desire for him to be with George? Because it was funny? it would be enough of a reason for John, but still.

And did he even like George, to the point of yearning for a relationship with him? It was all going too fast for Ringo. He had enjoyed working with him, and he thought he was a fascinating man. He was careful and thoughtful. More than that, he had a profound sense of humour and was charming and direct. There was a sharpness in his eyes, that intellect that radiated from him whenever he remained silent, thinking, looking, judging. Ringo had enjoyed the chef's company, appreciated him, and since then they had continuously texted. But he also felt uneasy at times. No, uneasy wasn't the right word. He stood in front of the kitchen door, trying to find  _ le mot juste _ . Embarrassed, perhaps? At the kind bluntness of the man? For he kept flattering him and Ringo didn't know how to deal with that? With John, he was used to it, and he comprehended it. But from someone he barely knew? He didn't. Therefore, he didn't know what to think of George. John's insinuations and bold revelation that the chef liked him, were spinning inside his head, making him dizzy with their strengths. He didn't know.

There wasn't a lot that Ringo knew, was it?

So, he cut the thoughts out and opened the door.

There George was, scrubbing stations from one side of the kitchen, while the other remained occupied — probably to finish a few last desserts. A teapot was boiling on a stove. At the end of the room, leaning on the fridge was a man he hadn't seen when he had come to help; it must have been the kitchen help. However, in spite of his job's name, he didn't seem to help: he was scrolling through his phone under his heavy dark fringe. Bored bulbous eyes, reddish tanned skin, chunky body, looking to the world disconnected from his work. Yet George hadn't been paying attention to the man. So Ringo did too. He shifted his eyes to George, observing before speaking. As always, he seemed focused on his task, careful with his hands, precise in his movements, and imperturbable. Apron around his slim waist covered by a pale Hindu shirt which stopped at his elbows, and around linen beige and baggy trousers. His mid-length hair was stuck to his neck: it must have been another hard service for him. It wasn’t over. There were stations and stoves to be washed, a pile of finished plates in the sink, ingredients to be put back in the fridge and desserts to be sent. It represented a lot of work, for a solitary chef. And since his kitchen help looked unconcerned by the situation, Ringo did what he knew best: he made his presence known by offering his help. He fully stepped in the kitchen, closing the door audibly for George to hear. Which he did, as he whirled around in direction of the noise, mouth in a straight line.

“Hey!” Ringo grinned, then extended his hand in his direction. “Mind if I help you there?”

George’s features instantly brightened. Rubbing his hands on his apron, he let go of the drying cloth he had used. “Not at all. Jacob,” he addressed the weary man in the back. Said man tilted his head up, uninterested. “You can go now,” he ordered bluntly, abandoning the man to blink in surprise. But George didn’t notice it, for he had already turned back to Ringo. He walked to him with a soap and drying cloth.

“Would you mind washing this side of the kitchen for me?” he pointed to the left side of the room. “I’ll finish the last desserts behind you meanwhile. Jacob will give you his apron.”

Ringo nodded. He briefly wondered how someone could refuse making these coffee eyes twinkle in gratitude. George nodded back. He pivoted on one foot and went back to his work. But Ringo couldn’t stare for long: The kitchen help — Jacob — was in front of him, obstructing his vision. He was about Ringo’s size, but he was considerably more massive than him and could easily send him flying with a blow. Why did he visualize such an image? Because the vicious glare the man directed at him as he dropped the apron in his hands was a silent threat; Ringo shuddered. Yet, nothing more. He departed. Weird guy. Ringo attempted to skim it off and, tying his apron behind his neck, got to work.

He discerned George moving behind him, utensils clicking, and plates settled on a surface. Mostly plating up silently or moving to the fridge to fetch the last required ingredients, while Ringo scrubbed a first station clean. They moved relentlessly, never speaking, and it was normal: George had to remain concentrated, in his bubble, for his work to be done. Under no circumstances would Ringo bother him.

The silence felt good: working alongside, in a restaurant that was emptying out of its customers. It wasn't stressful like last time; he could get used to this.

As he had washed two stations, George was putting away the ingredients in the fridge. Soon, he was next to him to the sink, while Ringo was scrubbing the stoves clean. When he started to wash the cutlery under the bubbly water, Ringo nudged his shoulder. The chef glanced at him. Ringo mouthed a soft "finished?"; George nodded with a tired smile. It was over.

To disturb the comfortable silence, George was the first to speak.

“So… How was the food then?”he said. Ringo felt their shoulders touching as they kept on cleaning.

“It was as delicious as usual,” he praised him. “But you used fewer spices, right?”

“Exclusively on your plate,” the chef shrugged, causing their shoulders to rub together. Ringo’s brow furrowed. Why had he done that? The chef must have sensed his confusion as Ringo had halted his gestures. But he lowered his head to examine his hands, brushing off his own explanation. “Since you had texted me that you preferred it this way. You don't like it when it's too spicy.”

Comprehension dawned on him.

“Oh right!” He hadn’t expected such a change, just for him. That George would have remembered it. And, for no apparent reasons, would have put the effort to modify his recipe, just for Ringo’s poor stomach. It was pleasant, someone making an effort for him. “Thanks, I didn’t think you’d recall that.

George hummed in something that bore a resemblance to pride. Suddenly he was puffing his chest out, his voice getting louder.

“Well, I am the best chef in Indian cuisine of Liverpool after all. I’ve got to hold to my reputation!

Ringo snorted, as he dried each stove thoroughly. But George didn’t catch on the humor of his sentence. He inquired as to the reason why he was laughing. Ringo shook his head, until he realized that the man next to him had completely stopped. He blinked and glanced in his direction: George was facing him, seriousness itched on his face. Frowning.

“I’m serious, you know? I could find a job in any restaurant, for they all know I am. Lots of them are asking for me as their chef."

He had said this with such a neutral expression. Spewing those facts as if they were evident. Almost deadpanning. But Ringo was still confused. Was he having him on?

“The previous restaurant I worked in came to be one of the best in town because of me. I’m sure you’ve heard of the Mowgli Street Food restaurant.”

Of course he had heard of it! It was a recent one, but he had heard many acquaintances recommend it. The local newspapers had praised it, followed by critics and awards’ acclamation. A famous chef had visited it to try that sudden reputed restaurant. It had mysteriously grown to be known in all of town, and all North of England. And he had heard of the chef behind its rise. For the restaurant didn't gain in notoriety before his arrival. It was said he had improved everything. From the menu to the way of working. A cooking genius, who was in harmony with Indian culture and cuisine. Who had managed to connect the two once again. But Ringo couldn’t have checked if the rumors were true: the prices were excessively high, and the registrations, always full. He knew all of this from the time he still had hoped to be hired in a real restaurant, be a real cook. Work in such places. Heck, he had even subscribed to a local cooking magazine, to know about all restaurants of town! But that was before. And now, here he was, standing in front of an acclaimed and extolled chef. He was literally washing his kitchen. Standing in his sacred sanctuary.

Suddenly, George seemed much more taller than him and much more mature, even though he was younger than Ringo. The lad was twenty-three years old — he knew it from their texting — and he had already accomplished much more than Ringo.

“... Wow.” he breathed out, at a loss.

George chuckled.

“Yeah, ‘wow’.”

He had so many questions. So many interrogations. But it wouldn’t appear cool, if he just blurted out all them like this. He tried to remain calm in his giddiness. Occupying his hands with the cloth, he went to the other side of the kitchen to wash the rest. George joined him and finished with the pile in the sink.

“Why did you leave the other restaurant then? It was more reputed than this one.And probably better."

“Personal reasons.”

The blunt answer was however, not accompanied by a grimace or a frown, therefore Ringo took no offense from it. He was certain these reasons were valid, and he didn’t press on it. He moved on to another question.

“Then how did you become the best chef in Indian cuisine of town? Is it a natural talent?”

“Hehe, not at all.” he chuckled again, and Ringo was beginning to love that sound; the whole action was lovable, from his curving lips, to his wavy hair quivering, passing by his softening eyes. His hand washed away the worktops as he drifted to his memories. “I went on an apprenticeship in India for three years when I was eighteen,” he began to explain. “With that much time, you learn a lot. I loved Indian cuisine, and I was lucky to discover the culture that surrounded it. I worked in street food snack-bars, fine dining restaurants, local cafes, and many other places. I discovered Hinduism, the people there, their way of life. And when I got back — I was around 21 — I started working in Liverpool in The Mowgli restaurant. Found out all of this had made me one of the best chefs in Liverpool. People kept coming to witness my skills, the restaurant was growing in reputation every day. All thanks to my family and Paul: they helped me financially to get to India that first year. I wouldn't be there without them. That's all.”

It was the first time he had listened to him speak for such a long time. The words flew easily out of his mouth. Rough around the edges, marked accent not ashamed of its presence, but with significant pauses with each piece of information; as if he wanted to keep Ringo captivated by his moving lips and extraordinary story — to Ringo, it was. But, behind the story, were secrets, yet to tell; George's past wasn't unveiled, something remained unsaid. There was a fog surrounding Paul; he had helped financially and was now working by George's side here. They didn’t bother Ringo, these missing information. Always one to see the positive in something, he was grateful to know a little bit more about the chef. He could encourage him to share more in the future. Not to be silent in front of him.

Therefore, he shared his surprised and joyful praises, knowing that they were sincere, hence George’s grateful smile in return. He wanted to ask more questions, to probe further; how was India, why did he go, how did Paul help, why was he working here. Yet he had sought none. They had a cleaning to carry out. Their conversation was over and they turned back to their tasks at hands. Periodically, Ringo would throw in a comment about India or cooking, something that didn’t require more than an approving or disapproving “hum” in answer; most of the time, it approved him.

When the main restaurant was quiet, except for last lost whispers under candlelights, the two cooks had completed their mission: the kitchen was sparkling, its grey stations and black stoves gleaming, all new. Ringo was glad to take off his apron, as George did the same. He passed it to him, and watched him tuck it away. From a coat hanger fixed on the kitchen door, George took a black jacket and put it on under Ringo’s blue eyes. Pulling on the cufflinks, he talked again.

“That’s all good. I’ll get home earlier than usual. Thanks Richard.”

Ringo dismissed it. Of course he did. It had felt right to support him again. He could have handled it all by himself; yet, helping him had provided him with a fulfilling feeling. Something accomplished, for a nice lad, whose company he enjoyed.

“Me too,” he said, referring to his previous statement. “I think we can leave the two lovebirds alone. John already sent me off, even though I had made the effort of dressing up as he asked!” he joked in the end, earning another of George’s warm chuckles. He wished he could count them all.

“That sounds like Paul. Wanted me to dress up too for tonight. Just for…” he stopped. He didn’t go further. Was it another of these secrets that were better left unsaid? A part of George that preferred to remain veiled for the sake of the chef’s happiness? Ringo thought it was up to him to break the ice before it formed. However, George snapped out of his torpor, jerked his head, and made eye-contact with him. A moment of his eyes trailing up and down, letting Ringo wonder. Then he spoke.

“By the way, you look handsome.”

That was, what we could call, a quite abrupt statement.

“I-” taken aback, Ringo stepped back. The man had gotten closer as they stood before the entrance. “You’re joking, right?”

But George wasn’t answering. Nevertheless, Ringo was not one to let himself be complimented. Oh no, such words shouldn’t be directed at him. There were so many greater people than him. Many more good-looking people. Such praises weren’t made for him: George was kidding. Even if he wasn’t, Ringo would find the one thing that couldn’t possibly “look handsome”. He stared at himself up and down too, seeking an undeniable flaw, until his gaze landed on his feet. That was it.

“Have you really seen me shoes?”

George giggled this time; a different sound, one he hadn’t heard yet. It was clearer, less thick, not blunt, shier to get away from his sealed lips. A rare sound.

“Oh no I’m serious,” he rested his hand on his shoulder, making Ringo feel warm for a brief instant. At that time the chef’s eyes were on the shoes, with a distant look in his eyes. “And the shoes too. With their octopus. They’re like… you. They’re funny and colorful. Sweet.”

Ringo had no words. Therefore, he didn’t answer. He preferred it this way. Easier for his mind, not to try to understand. He didn’t consider accepting the compliment for what it was, and, as he stared at George, oh so much better looking than him, brushed it aside. An half-attempt, for he couldn’t help his blush, or his stammer while George opened the door and they stepped out.

“W-well, I should go now.”

“You want me to accompany you? It’s on my way.”

The proposition came from nowhere. It distracted him from eyeing his flatmate, and so he completely missed on what was happening behind him; his eyes had zoomed on George. He blinked. A little technical problem in Ringo’s head that made him pause, and forget his body looked stunned to George. Until he came back to reality, to the dimmed and vacant restaurant, to George’s amused smirk. A slap on the face that awoke him and make him rush out:

“Sure! That’d be great!”

With a nod, George walked him out of the restaurant. Ringo was happy to walk by his side. He knew he would undoubtedly get a few more texts from him tonight. But he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind hearing about his nightly meditation or his veggie dinner, or listening to his comments and judgments about whatever he’d watch on TV. He loved to talk to him about random things, from his drawing attempts to his job and the stories he heard from the elderly at work. The end of the service he had spent with him was refreshing. He felt George’s hand on the small of his back as he opened the broad glazed doors for them to go outside. The sky was black. Ringo glimpsed a last time to the lighted restaurant: John and Paul were sitting next to each other, their foreheads touching. He hoped it would go alright for them. For John’s sake: he deserved some happiness in his life. Then George’s voice was calling to him and he departed from the scene. Side by side, they were gone.

This night hadn’t been so bad after all.

***

John was nervous.

Nervous as fuck.

Was it because of the three cups of tea and the coffee he had ordered and gulped down as he sat alone, waiting for Paul?

Perhaps.

He didn’t really know.

Could you get tea drunk? Because that’s how he felt. Light-headed by his stress, blurred background, people departing becoming white noise in his ear, dizzy. The sole distinct thing in his mind was Paul’s presence.The only thing his eyes could follow; they had latched themselves on him and were firmly anchored to his movements. Which didn’t soothe his dizziness; the lad kept walking from one side of the room to another, table to table, serving desserts or cleaning. Too many actions. Too many details to distinguish. Therefore, he often lost his track, and was left blinking dumbly at a table that Paul had taken care of long ago. Disorientated, he would scrutinize the whole room until he saw him cleaning or serving. He would sigh in relief; he hadn’t abandoned him.

He was stupid. Getting so lost over a simple promise of an after service meeting. He barely had an idea as to how it would go. Or what they’d talk about. Or if it would lead to anything. That was the worst in all his predicament: he likely was waiting for nothing. Or not. All these doubts! John couldn’t deal with them anymore! They had to stop. He was rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. He was tired. He didn’t want to be fed false hope anymore. Sitting here for no reason than following his heart’s foolishness was something that exhausted him. It reminded him of the past. Of his previous relationship. The one that abandoned him, wounded for a year.

He tossed back his head. No. He wasn’t thinking about that. Up until now, he had been satisfied; he hadn’t made one single self-deprecating comment about himself, he had been confident in his words, he had dared. This wouldn’t change.

That was why he decided tonight, he would go to the point. No more giving time to Paul. Tonight, he would know.

"Nice shirt. It's one of my favorite bands." 

John jolted. He whirled on his bench; there Paul was sitting next to him, in the space he had left. Self-consciously, John slid on the side, giving him more room. He hadn’t noticed him at all. When he looked around again, he realized most of the tables were cleaned, chairs reversed on top; there was only a table with two girls in the front of the room that was occupied, and by the looks of love they were exchanging between each other, there were very few chances they’d bother them. He allowed himself to relax and concentrate on Paul again. The waiter was facing him with a hesitant smile, hands secured together on the table. He was still as attractive as the beginning of the service. Then he remembered Paul's compliment and nodded a quick thanks. He had been right to choose that Beach Boys shirt.

Before John could imagine a way to pursue this conversation, Paul surprised him by putting a sheet of paper in front of him. On it was a drawing. Of-

“Here,” he presented with a vague wave of his hand, as if he was offering a common thing. “It’s the drawing I was about to do at lunch; of the pretty boy I was watching. Nothing special, but, you know…”

He concluded his sentence in an half-shrug, staring in the distance, and John was disappointed because no, he didn’t know. Didn’t know why Paul considered him a pretty boy. Didn’t know why he deserved such a humorous and sweet drawing of himself, in oversized round glasses, with a soft smile, eyebrows high and long hair puffy and sticking out in big curls everywhere. Didn’t know how he could resist this lad anymore. His small heart had grown three sizes that day — Ah! A Grinch reference! Fitted him perfectly — and he felt his face melt as he took the drawing in his hands. He had no words nor critics for it; the simple gift had shut his mouth, shut himself for even attempting to criticize Paul’s way of drawing John, shut himself from any belittling comment. Additionally, the drawing was too much; John still didn’t know if Paul was flirting, or just being nice to who he considered his “favorite client”.

Paul wouldn’t tell him, for their conversation was stilted. As if a big, fat, crushing and suffocating weight had landed on their shoulders and they had barely enough strength to open their mouths. Paul's failed attempt of a chit chat had been followed with nothing but awkward silence. John was staring ahead, contemplative after putting the small sketch in his pocket, while Paul looked at his hands, how they entwined so well together, how they would fit so well in John's hands — that was John's thought. But this fleeting image his mind made up gave him an audacious idea, that the insecure John of before wouldn't have fathom; but the determined one that sat now was ready to do it. After all, he had said he wanted to know, hadn't he?

So John grasped Paul's hands in his, seizing his attention, and hauling it to his eyes. As John shifted, a knee bent on the bench, he rested their hands on it. Then he stared at Paul's soul, mustering not only courage, but sobriety, adding as much significance as he could to this instant.

“Paul, I’ll go straight to the point," he began, peering from above his glasses, head slightly tilted down. He wasn't patient for the startled waiter's answer. This was it. "I can’t stay in doubt any longer. I need to know. Do I have a chance with you? Because if I do, I want to take it. Now”

He couldn't believe he was capable of that. He felt momentarily proud of himself.

Paul was immobile. Unmoving as always. Closed off on himself. Mouth in a straight line, a barrier to the deepest part of his mind and his heart. Never his mouth nor his body expressed his feelings. A tight rope bound him down, restraining him from acting on instincts. At such a crucial moment, when hearing John's words, Paul decided to let his professionalism take over him. The shell wasn't broken, and John was painfully reminded of that. But he wouldn't give up. He wouldn't be considered as just a client. Not anymore.

"Paul, I know what you're doing, but it's not going to work," he drew his head closer to his.

The two girls had left their table.

"I want an honest answer from you, Paul. And not from the waiter or the deliverer. From the lad that I wish to get to know better, if he gave me the chance to."

He had spoken in a subdued tone, trembling on the edge of whispers. They were alone now. A solemn atmosphere settled over the room. It was all quiet, except for scraps of conversation coming from the kitchen. The restaurant’s windows were dark. The light from the candles radiated a white glow. All of these details were observed, as Paul stayed silent all this time. His mouth was strongly holding on, against John’s interrogation, resisting from speaking the truth, a personal opinion that wasn’t professional. John waited. He felt strangely patient for once in his life; the voices in his brain — always ready to shout at him — were equally quiet, as if they were waiting too. The lad’s eyes didn’t meet his, fixed on the hands. No one could tell if he was pondering, or lost to his head, zoning out away from John and his question. John wouldn’t let him go. A gentle squeeze on his hands, to make him blink back to reality. When Paul did, he seemed to come back to life, for he suddenly started fidgeting on his seat. He was biting his upper lip; his mouth was losing. It would speak.

"John, I would love to..." but there was a but. He could detect it in Paul’s hesitancy. His gaze remained on their hands. "But I have a job to focus on. It’s important to me, and I don't know if I can allow myself to… you know."

The boy had a tendency to complete his uncompleted sentence and holed thoughts with a “you know”, which was quite ironic since John didn’t know again. His lips quirked up in amusement for a second, before remembering the significance of this instant

"To what, Paul? Enjoy something you want? Because you didn’t refuse it. Do you want to refuse it?” he asked, wanting Paul to know he would always offer him a choice and respect it. But Paul shook his head. No. John smiled. “Then give it a chance. We can always stop afterwards. But you can allow yourself to give it a try."

Paul seemed to have a strong mental and a stubborn streak; if he was convinced that his job was more essential than John, then he had no hope: Paul would say no. Yet, John couldn’t comprehend that; but how could he when his aunt had found a job for him, a flat, everything? Except… well something Paul perhaps could give him.

All of the sudden, he felt Paul’s forehead and bangs pressed to his. A sigh fell off his lips.

"Alright. I will."

A pang of joy — or relief. He felt all the air he had seized when Paul had dared to lean in, escape him, taking away all his might. It was barely manageable to stop him from slumping forward, alleviated from all his pained doubts. Eyes closed, for he knew. He had been granted a chance. What he had done to earn it, he would never comprehend; he would cherish it as much as he could. He wanted to enjoy this moment, draw it out, let it resonate through, so it overtook their mind and the mood. Felt the physical contact on his head, assuring him it was real. Not even the footsteps from the kitchen retreating to the exit distracted him. Nothing would prevent him from making the most of it.

"So… what does it change now? What should we do?” Paul questioned. He could feel him staring right at his own closed lids. John snorted: what an active boy; he couldn’t step back and enjoy something, oh no he had to do something! He was as patient as John — which meant he wasn’t.

"Well, whatever you want. We can start at your rhythm,” he revealed his eyes; Paul was blank, no expressions betraying him. The decision he had made had closed him off; his guard was back. John wouldn’t let it deter him. “How about seeing each other after work first, huh? You tell me when, and you come to my place. How about that?"

"That would be great,” Paul nodded, forehead rubbing on his. Then he shrugged, with a light blush. “And sorry, I’m just not used to all that."

John dismissed his apology; his eyes widened as he considered what it meant: had Paul ever dated anyone? No, he couldn’t believe someone so handsome hadn’t had a relationship before. No. He tried not to let this bewilder him, and settled on being as practical as Paul.

"When then?"

"Well-"

"Paul!” A voice shouted from the entrance. They both jumped back. Paul’s boss was standing not far. Had he seen everything? John realized the closeness they shared a second before; he missed that forehead and these hands. The boss and his knitted brows stared at Paul, cold. “I'm going. Close the restaurant on your way."

Paul looked like he had been caught making the gravest professional mistake ever, face white.

"Y-yes sir, I will."

Then he stood up, hurriedly walking to clean the remaining dirty tables. The boss seemed contented, and he departed. They were alone again, but the mood had shifted. John would have liked to help, but the pleading eyes prayed for him to leave, so John didn’t insist. He understood. He stood. Checking his pocket to make sure the drawing was still there, he straightened his shirt and was going to the exit. Paul was following him, acting as if he wished to wash the glazed doors. When they reached them, they were awkwardly upright; John was hesitant to leave, and Paul was playing with his wet cloth, hesitant to clean. They yearned for a longer time together, but it wasn't supposed to happen.

Paul stopped playing and lifted his head up to John.

“Call me back tomorrow? I’ll tell you when then.”

John smirked. With an exaggerated bow that lowered his hand to his toes, he answered, faking a posh voice:

“That will be the first thing I’ll do tomorrow morning, darling. ”

Paul giggled, and the atmosphere felt lighter.

They exchanged awkward goodbyes. And John finally stepped out.

On his way home, he went through all the events of the night. From the beginning of this date to the end. He felt undeniably lucky. His life wasn’t so futile. There was something — no, someone, to look forward to in the morning. He had managed it. He had succeeded. He only hoped not to blow it now. He didn’t know if he’d deserve a second chance. He didn’t know how many second chances at life he could get.

But he was confident. It had been a long time since he walked out in the dark, arrogantly staring at the world, at his town, with a smirk on his face and self-assurance in his steps. He could do it.

He would prove it.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 7_ **

(~8500 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY THEY ARE MOVING FORWARD ! This is the end of the part 1 of the story hehe. WOW this was a big chapter  
> I hope you all liked it, laughed a bit. If you can, leave a comment (they make my day 💙)  
> As always, take care, and have a great day 💙  
> See you next week !


	8. Call Me Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles to make a phone call to Paul. 
> 
> Problem? Well he doesn't have his phone number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow here we go ! We launch part 2 of our story! It will be quite different (I wont spoil anything, but check the tag about chapter 9 lol). I hope this gradual change wont bother you and you will stick with our story ^^  
> This is a small filler chapter, as the two next chapters will be BIG ! Still hope you will like it hehe  
> Enjoy!

Thursday morning, John awoke bright and early, a spring in his steps, a killer grin on his face. Seven o’clock, not grumbling, without Ringo’s incessant but usual knocking on his door for him to wake up. He was earlier than his flatmate. On his bedside table, Paul's sketch greeted him, for he had positioned it there last night. His grin got broader.

He hopped in the shower, hummed a rudimentary version of  _ Don’t Stop Me Now _ , as he shampooed and washed himself vigorously and excitedly. Stamping his foot on the floor, moving his hand rhythmically, sighing in contentment. He was out after a five minutes record, swaying his hips as he slid the curtain close. In front of the mirror, he challenged his untamable hair and was victorious as it untangled through his hands. Towel around his waist, he paddled back to his room, still humming. Noises were heard in the kitchen, Ringo preparing their breakfast. Opening his dressing, John surfed on his thrill. He took out his widest bell bottoms blue jeans, crimson red Guns 'n' Roses t-shirt and denim jacket saturated with either political, discreet rainbow, or rock band pins and badges. It was the first time he dressed so rapidly and so confidently in the morning. Glasses on, he was almost dancing to the kitchen, big steps, hips swinging, hands leisurely waving. With such a grand entrance, Ringo had stayed frozen, teapot in hand, following this abnormality. Immobile until John had sat down to the table after turning around his chair and jumping down, spoon in his hand ready to dig in a bowl of cornflakes. He served himself and ate with gusto, only to stop when he realized Ringo was still up, staring at him, with his teapot. Slowly withdrawing the spoon from his mouth, milk dripping from his mouth, his brows furrowed. Tired of waiting, as his flatmate remained still, he barked:

"Oi! You sleeping or what?"

Ringo jumped: his toes above the ground for a second and hot drops of water burning his wrist. He gasped in pain, John springing up to help him by taking the heated teapot in his hands. Internalizing his own suffering — fuck it was boiling hot! — he put the dangerous heated metal on the table, far away from him and Ringo. His flatmate nodded his thanks with a tight smile, as he blew some cool air on his wrist.

“What’s up with ya this morning?” John interrogated as he slumped back in his own seat. “You were dozing in the distance. Didn’t sleep well or something?” 

Ringo shook his head, his usual cheeriness crawling back as he pulled out his own chair to sit. But he was still staring at him; twinkling eyes this time, as if he had been let on a secret that John was ignorant of. Brain running fast, trying to guess what could make his flatmate so mischievous in the morning: their date last night in the restaurant; John flirting with Paul; Ringo being sent to the chef; George and Ringo leaving the restaurant unnoticed by John after- Oh! Oh. Oh, oh! John smirked, leaning on the backrest.

“Oh I see…” Ringo looked at him curiously as he filled their teacups. John waited for him to finish, not wanting to reproduce the accident of earlier. When he was sure he was done — Ringo munching on some cereal biscuits — he grinned maliciously, tilting his head up. “Last night was busy. I hope not to see a naked chef strolling down your room this morning, though.”

And here, he was trying to prevent another accident, and the accident ultimately happened: Ringo choked on his biscuit. John dropped his almighty and superior act, uttering a curse and ready to bolt up to help him again, but Ringo flicked his hand, signalling him he was fine between two coughs. When Ringo’s breath calmed, a gulp of tea healing his throat, he chastised his flatmate.

“No John, nothing happened. He just dropped me home,” John didn’t know if he was supposed to be disappointed or relieved: he didn’t appreciate the guy, as petty as it might seem. “No I was thinking of something else, that’s why I was a bit slow.”

Hum… this was suspicious. 

“Which is?”

“I haven’t seen you so happy in a long time,” Ringo confessed, a tired smile after the two accidents he had had to go through until now. “Especially in the morning. It’s nice.” he added as an afterthought.

Ringo was looking at him with crinkled up eyes, their warm blues enveloping him in reassurance. When Ringo was being soft, happy, or embarrassed, his eyes grew darker, taking on an ocean color, different to his icy ones when he was mad or frustrated, or his sky blue ones when he was his usual cheery self. But these ocean ones were John’s favorite: it comforted him in a calming wave. He let out a tiny smile, chin slightly ducked in his shoulders. Ringo was an infectious warmth, affecting anyone in his vicinity.

Ringo took another gulp of his tea; John did the same. Fuck, he felt great this morning; Ringo was right, he couldn’t remember when was the last time he felt this cheerful. A buzz of joy in his entire being.

“What happened while I was gone then?” Ringo inquired playfully. “If you want to talk about it, that’s it, I’m-”

“Of course I’ll tell you Rings,” he interfered as he shifted on his seat. Hesitating between pride and shyness, he tried to brush off the event, but barely succeeded; he could feel his face melt as he spoke. “I asked him if he would be willing to take a chance on me. If he wished to be with me. And he said yes. He would love to.”

“That’s fabulous John! I’m so happy for you. I knew this would work out,” his flatmate beamed, drinking his cup in one go. John was starting to be at a loss of words in front of such support; the remembrance of his accomplishment was an undying source of thrill. Because he did; he achieved his quest: Paul wanted to be with him. “I hope you get another date soon then.”

“That’s already settled mate. Just need to call him to know when he’s free, and he’ll come here for a lazy night, movie plus dinner,” he said, relaxing on his seat, as he began to eat the remnants of his cornflakes again. He thought the conversation was over, and he allowed himself to rest on his happy cloud, recalling the feeling of Paul’s hands in his and Paul’s forehead on his. He was becoming a daft soft lad, daydreaming because of one tiny sentence uttered by the subject of his infatuation. This term wasn’t as adequate as before, however; he felt this had grown to be more than infatuation, but he couldn’t name it yet. What he had thought to be an obsession was more complex than that; not difficult to express, he enjoyed every moment of this new feeling. He would have loved to dwell on it, as he ate his favorite snack, but Ringo decided otherwise, popping him out of his bubble.

“Perfect. I’ll see my mom that night. Let’s just hope Paul won’t back down and quit when you call him.” 

John froze. His spoon fell off his hand. Straightened all of the sudden. His eyes had widened out of his glasses.

“... He wouldn’t now. Would he?” he asked.

Ringo shrugged. That was all he did. He fucking shrugged, as if he hadn’t dropped a bomb on the table; he was leaving it to tick John’s nerves. John, who had been cruelly pulled out of his induced happiness and was flailing miserably to get back to it. It was when Ringo remarked John was paralysed that he looked up from his biscuit and realized his mistake. Guilt engulfed him, transparent on his face. But it was too late.

“I’ll just call him now to know then!” John declared, ripping his phone off his pocket, the movement making his glasses slip lower on his nose.

“John it’s barely eight in the morning who will-” Ringo was shushed as John dialed the number of the restaurant — he still didn’t have Pau’s number. He put on his speakers, so Ringo could hear. Why? Perhaps to prove Ringo had been wrong, shoving the proof to his face. They listened to the long drawl of the beeps of John’s phone. Patience John. It would be fine.

A voice finally emerged from the invading beeps, but not the voice he had hoped for.

_ “Hello this is George Harrrison from Hot Chillies, it’s a bit early to order don’t ya think mate?” _

Ringo giggled. John’s face grew red. When his flatmate saw John’s expression, his giggles mixed with one or two snort, as his hands covered his mouth. But John wasn’t finding this funny. Not one bit. And god, it was way too early to be explaining himself to thick-accented rude hippie George,  _ Harrrrrison _ , or hear any other fond giggles from Ringo’s mouth. Oh god no. He had wanted to hear Paul’s melodious voice, not that!

So, as the chef on the other side of the line was repeating _ “hullo?”  _ multiple times, in different tones for more of Ringo’s giggles, John viciously glared at the phone and hung up. Then he crossed his arms on his chest and pouted. Fucking chef. Always ruining everything for him. Ringo sent him a look of sympathy across the table. But John didn’t want that: he wanted to hear Paul’s voice.

“Don’t worry John; I’m sure if you call him later, he’ll ask when he can come here.”

John sighed, watching Ringo get up, taking out the dishes. He hoped he was right. He really hoped.

He stared at the remaining yellowy yummy flakes in a puddle of milk. They were joyless now.

***

The second time he tried to call him it was two o’clock in the afternoon.

He had waited so long so he could be sure Paul would be there. He knew he wasn’t doing deliveries on Thursday, so he’d be probably done serving tables at this hour. It was an appropriate time to phone him.

But before that, he was at his job. Again. Like most days of his dull life, unless Paul appeared in one.

Ugh, he couldn’t wait for the week-end. So he could have that date. Or at least plan it. A whole weekend to plan it, that sounded good. By “planning”, John didn’t mean preparing anything special for it, or organising something — no, all of these would be performed at the last minute: he meant preparing himself mentally. He hadn’t invited a crush to his home in so long. He barely knew when was the last time he kissed a lad, except for his previous boyfriend, and that had been a year ago at least. While John acted all cocky when he wanted, he knew he still had troubles being at ease with… certain things. That was why he hoped to think this through. He didn’t want to be the one to back out in the end.

In the Central Library of Liverpool, all was quiet in the Oak Room. Not a noise, not a blasphemous whisper, all people in respectful silence, reading the secret texts telling of fictive and genuine stories from all over the world. Which made his job all the more boring. No one was coming for advice, or to register a book or anything. On his lunch break, it had been the same: no one talking to him, nothing happening. He had gone to a little ramen shop, and the place had been utterly dead. Which was a disappointment for his fertile mind, who often enjoyed to pass the time by imagining the lives of people surrounding him. He had been left with imagining what Paul’s life was like outside of the restaurant, once again, for the billionth time.

So this afternoon, as he had been waiting for the opportune moment to call the restaurant, balancing himself on his desk chair, he had texted an old friend. A dear old friend. Opening his messenger app, hoping for a quick answer. Needless to say, it had been a while since he had texted him, but that didn’t mean he would first take the time for useless chit chat about how he was doing.

**\------ Shitty artist Stu ------ 📞📷 ℹ️**

_ Gay catastrophe: So, remember that time I took the piss outta you for being stuck in a long-distance relationship with that German gal? And you said that at least you had a relationship compared to me _

\----

He waited for the little icon with Stu’s and Astrid’s faces to appear under his text and so left the app open. His friend had been the bassist of his band in the good old days. Next he had dumped them when he had gotten a place to a posh art school in Hamburg, where his girlfriend lived. Two years ago, when John was twenty-four, the lad suddenly reappeared, with an art shop down Elliot Street. When John had contacted him and they got to talk behind a pint, he learned he was on a break with Astrid and had decided to come back here, to show her he — John quoted — “didn’t need to follow her around like a dog everywhere she went.” Well, if you wanted John’s opinion, he’d say that crossing seas and countries was a bit exaggerated. Plus it had turned out to be a catastrophic move: a month after they were back together, but crying to sleep as they were currently stuck in different countries: Stu couldn’t give up his shop and Astrid her career in Germany. A right mess. But a comforting one; somehow, some people were worse than him when it came to dealing with their emotions, no matter how much Stuart acted cool and controlled.

Three dots appeared on his phone screen. Stu was answering.

\------------

_ Shitty artist Stu: Yeah, and since then you haven’t talked to me. _

_ Shitty artist Stu: For a month. _

\----

Huh. Now that was a low move. But this wouldn’t get him mad. Oh no, he wouldn’t be put down when he had such tremendous news. Even though it wasn’t certain yet. But still. He yearned to rub his happiness in someone’s face.

\------------

_ Gay catastrophe: Guess who got himself a relationship now? _

\---

On the clock of his phone, he noticed the hour: two o’clock; time to make that phone call. He’d see Stuart’s answer later.

He got up from his chair, leaving his desk just for enough time to make a call; assuredly, people wouldn't decide to need his help when he fled. He passed the door in a hurry, fumbling with his phone to land in the call section. Oh how things would be easier if he had Paul's phone number! But no, instead he was bound with the restaurant's number, while Ringo had known George less and already had his phone number — yes, he was still petty about that. Yet he was convinced Paul would pick up.

So convinced, that he greeted him without hearing his voice first, guessing it was his infatuation on the line. Overly excited, yet careful in the end of his sentence:

"Paul hi! Finally! I was calling you for the date. But if you're busy… or if you need more time… well, I just want your‐"

_ "Excuse me Sir, but Paul's not here." _

Another voice interrupted his ramble. A deep, firm, polished voice. He couldn't replace that voice.

"Who is this?" He asked bluntly, disappointed and demanding a damn good reason to be respectful to that intrusive man.

_ "This is Mr. Bailey, owner of the restaurant." _

"... Oh."

Oh god he had fucked up royally there. This was the boss. Paul’s boss. Again. He was confronting him way too much lately, and this couldn’t be pleasant for Paul. Including to that the fact he was remaining breathless and silent on the phone, wasting the boss’ time and his own. He had to find a way out of his stupor, before even attempting to make up an excuse: none could take back his words. Mr. Bailey had heard. And if he wouldn’t have given a fuck in his past rebellious years, he didn’t now; he didn’t want his somewhat boyfriend to be in more trouble. He still recalled Paul’s panic when he had left their flat in a hurry after he had stayed to warm up: the anxiety that had run through his core had been worrying as much as when he had entered the flat all wet from the rain.

A loud yet polite order startled him out of his trance.

_ “Did you need anything, Sir?” _

Shit. He looked at his phone helplessly. What was he going to invent? A text popped on his phone meanwhile: Stuart. He could already imagine his cruel smirk if he was witnessing him right now. Somehow, this picture kicked him forward, and he snapped out of his nervousness. Growing angry and prideful, masking anything else, he spoke.

“Yes, I would have liked to know when Paul would be back. You see, yesterday I wished to reserve a table, but I hadn’t chosen the date yet. I would have liked to inform him of my choice, as he had been the waiter that took care of me last night.”

Way to go Lennon. This was the most polite sentence you made today. Or in weeks. Or in months. Actually, diving into recent memories, he couldn’t see a moment where he had been so polite for such a long sentence. That boosted his confidence up a bit. That boss wasn’t scaring him anymore. Plus, his excuse was unbeatable.

_ “I see…” _ the boss trailed on.  _ “Well Paul had to fetch some last grocery for tonight’s service. You will settle this with him later: try in an hour or so.” _

John obtained his information, and he was considerably relieved of that fact. He sighed. Before long he would know. Soon. But he couldn’t enjoy it for long, for Mr. Bailey interfered with his hopeful thoughts.

_ “If that is all Sir.” _

He quickly acquiesced, too impatient to hang up. Which the man did. 

John strolled back to his work, not eager to return to his broad mahogany desk, enclosed in the oh-so-spacious-you-could-get-lost Oak Room, entrapped in silence more intimidating than death. But he had a job, and a job he would fulfill, as he would wait long dreaded hours to have Paul on the line. Then he'd get his phone number, and the reassurance that yes, he would still take a chance on him.

Meanwhile, he would just be sitting, feet on his desk, imagining lives around him, the tastes of people based on the books they were reading, drawing another sketch of Paul, or writing another poem that wouldn't see the light of day.

He heaved another sigh as he slumped back in his chair — or a groan. He ignored the looks an old man sent him, probably horrified by such noise in a sacred library. He did not care. He was apprehensive.

His phone rested next to a book on his desk; he picked it up. The screen lit, announcing three unread texts, all from Stuart. He opened the app and scrutinized it, a smile growing on his face. Proud.

\------------

_ Shitty artist Stu: OMG MATE REALLY??? _

_ Shitty artist Stu: We have to talk. _

_ Shitty artist Stu: No excuse, gimme a time and a day _

\----

He chuckled, feeling lighter after his disappointing phone call. At least one person was joyful — he hoped he was — for him. Because at this point even he himself wasn't. He wrote him back without waiting.

\------------

_ Gay catastrophe: After my date, I'll tell you when _ .

\----

Lowering his phone, back to his work, he looked at the ceiling. A few hours and he’d known: if Paul backed down or Paul’s phone number. It would be so long.

The hours were dragging on forever, so he took a pencil and drew once again, Paul's face.

***

Stepping out of the front doors, he was out in the street, out of his work, free. Finally.

He didn't want to return to his flat yet. Didn't wish to face Ringo without knowing. Didn't yearn to come back depressed to a snug home. It was around half past six. Time. That was something he appreciated. He watched from left to right: lively streets bustling with people all around, shops lightened with doors opening and closing every three seconds, fast food and restaurants already serving with clicking noises: from afar, the sea, with its docks, strangely calm and serene. They seemed to attract him, and soon after he had bought a quick latte in a coffee shop, his feet were directing him away from the sounds and the voices. To a murky sky of the end of May and a green blue sea. On his way, the street filtered as he distanced himself from the overwhelmed center of Liverpool: less people, less shops, less worries, cozy. Until he reached a much colder area. The docks, with its red houses sprouting up randomly, and its long grey walk following the seas. Some forgotten boat stood around, between the Liverpool museums and historic buildings. He drank his latte in one go, warming up instantly — would Paul like latte, or did he prefer a dark coffee? He would have to remember to ask. He walked along the submitting waves, watching its slow motion colliding with the walls of the docks. Until his feet were tired, and he collapsed down, legs hanging above the water, hands gripping the edge, sighing.

He had to call Paul. Give it one last try. But his rare optimism had vacated, and suddenly he felt reluctant to enter the restaurant's number once again.

Closing his eyes, he breathed in the salty water, listened to the seagulls chirping, the few footsteps of lost strollers, and felt the wind tickle his chin. He relaxed his tense shoulders. This wasn't so bad. Relaxing.

Out of nowhere, a surge of determination tackled him to his phone screen. He was prepared. To be disappointed or overjoyed. He called the restaurant for the third time this day.

There were long beeps. Five times. Then someone picked up. But he hadn’t absorbed his lesson earlier; he spoke first.

“Hello yes I would have liked to talk to Paul, but if he isn’t here, can you just tell him John Lennon tried to call him cause he wanted to just…” his shoulders slumped in defeat, his face painted in sorrow. His energy had departed so rapidly “Well, to be honest, at this point he just wants to hear his voice.”

The sea seemed much more desirable than his own mind. Today was simply not his lucky day. He should have gone home already, run to his bed and sleep — what was he thinking waking up so early this morning? That it would be worth it? He should have realized by now, that his bed was his best friend. Plus, his mind was wandering and digressing from its original course, like the rebel it was. Curse it, he might as well hang up and leave to the comfort of-

Then he heard it: a clear muffled giggle. From a melodious voice.

His eyes widened. Was it really who he thought it was?

_ “You know, I think we can work this out.” _

John gaped. His whole stance sprang up: back straightened, shoulders tensed, eyes up, corners of his lips up. It was Paul. Paul. Paul!

“Paul! That’s you!”

He heard a chuckle this time.

_ “Aye, it’s me.” _

He was more than relieved: a lonely ray of sun had graced him with its presence, warming his whole being, relaxing his stiffness with its heat. A treasured moment, scarce in bitter Liverpool and tumultuous John. He played with the sleeves of his denim jacket for some time, processing the voice of Paul in his mind. An ordinary affirmation, a little joke, and John was mush in Paul’s hands. So much so, that he forgot to tell the reason he called: forgot his words, forgot the purpose that had filled this day since the bright morning to the gloomy evening. Therefore, in front of John’s stunned silence, Paul spoke. He started by settling facts with a confidence so grounded and unmoving that John clutched onto it, and he finished with a rush of politeness coming from a well carved professionalism. The proof Paul could make decisions for them was actually quite reassuring to John, for reasons he couldn’t explain.

_ “I was waiting for your phone call, you know for the date? I thought of Monday evening. It’s my day off you see, and so we’ll have a bit more time. It’s better for a first I think. If you still want to of course!” _

“I- of course it is! It will be perfect!” he snapped out of his soft trance and nodded to nobody. Quickly rewinding in his head what had been said. “Monday yeah. Is 7pm good for you?”

_ “Yep, it’s good.” _ He could detect his heart-chapped lips turning up.  _ “So… dinner and movie right? Should I-” _

“Exactly. I’ll order something for us, and we will pick a movie. Is it ok for you?”

John had been momentarily struck with his own self-assurance; what a bold decision after such an insecure day!

_ “Normally yes. Unless you order Indian." _ Paul finished with a disgusted snort. It was a joke that John welcomed positively, for he fared better with humor than with anything else: even when it came to his own self.

“What you don’t want to eat the same thing you serve everyday? Is it that bad? My poor lad.”

_ “Oh god no I think my nostrils have been ruined by all the curry spices in this place. Please not Indian.” _

The desperate tone in Paul’s voice increased by his barely hidden giggle made John crack up in a restful laugh. His shoulders started to shake with the tremors of chuckles and cackles, and Paul was soon joining from the other side of the line. For a moment, it was as if they were in the same room, next to each other, forehead to forehead, eyeballs to eyeballs, sharing a private secretive laughter than no one in the world could understand. And John wished it was true.

When they were calm once again, Paul decided to dive back into conversation, even though John’s purpose of the day had been resolved. 

_ “Also John, you know you can come to the restaurant anytime you want right? If I can’t answer the phone or if you just want to see me or maybe not but-” _

“That’s actually a good idea. I also had one by the way,” as much as he would have liked to let himself be overjoyed by what Paul was implying, he had suddenly remembered another one of his goals. Fearful of missing an occasion to ask for the desired information, he had interrupted in this sweet lovely token of trust. So Paul had replied with a curious — and a somewhat huffed — _ “Oh?”. _ John asked: “Wouldn’t it be nice if I had your phone number too?” 

_ “Oh!” _ Ah, understanding dawned on the delivery lad. _ “Well, hehe, that’s right it would be useful. That’s a good idea too.” _

He gave him his phone number. The confidential and concealed number; the treasure of the restaurant; the most guarded information of any telephone book: he had it. Heard it, typed it, and stored in his contact under Paul’s name with a peace sign and a green heart. It was in his hands. There would be no more Ringo taunting him with having George’s number; he wasn’t so useless anymore. He had made it. And so, he congratulated himself. Voices in his head rolled their eyes, but they were happy for him: after all, they had also been there and waiting for this moment since the beginning of the day. They were proud. Of John. 

Soon, it was time to make goodbyes. John hadn’t much to say. He was glad to come back home with good news, and a tender heart. That was all he wanted to carry home with him.

“I’ll see you soon then?” 

_ “I can’t wait for it.” _

And so, he hung up, already dreaming of Monday.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 8_ **

(~4600words)

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is my favourite chapter, so 👀 
> 
> ALSO ANNOUNCEMENT! I'll be posting chapter 9 and 10 during the next two weeks, but after that I will take a winter break (for my finals) for three-four weeks. Sorry ^^' just a warming in advance 
> 
> Anyway I will see you all next week for the next chapter ^^ thank you so much for reading and commenting 💙


	9. One Day At A Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second date: sharing food, a guitar, and holding hands.Then, they fell into each other's eyes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK EVERYONE!!! I HAVE BEEN WAITING ALL WEEK FOR THAT. BECAUSE THIS IS MY FAV CHAPTER  
> I was giddy and nervous all week about it (and I'm absolutely NOT fairing better right now) and fhdjfk I sincerely hope you will like it, I really tried to perfect it in and- yeah pls enjoy it?  
> Thanks to everyone for their lovely comments last time: they still make my day and push me to write more of this ♥  
> Now let's get on to the chapter, shall we?  
> Enjoy ~  
> (please do)

Monday, at seven o'clock in the night, Paul stood in front of John's door, anxious to get in but reluctant to enter. Repeatedly rising then lowering his fist, never knocking. His lower lip had bled with the amount of biting he had done to it. He couldn't be late, but he couldn't be sharp on time. He couldn't conceal his excitement, nor could he hide his nervousness. An urge to go inside against an urge to stay outside.

This was his day off, as the restaurant was always closed on Monday. He had woken up this morning and immediately ran to throw up, to his father's concerned shout from the living-room. He brushed off his sickness, favouring a walk outside to refresh and calm. The morning was short, for it was only on Mondays that he allowed himself to over sleep. He had gone back home at lunch, eaten with his dad, called his brother who lived in London, then stayed in silence in his room until five. What had he done? Nothing of importance, as was usual. At five, he changed into more suitable clothes for the date. But the problem was the following: how was he supposed to dress? The only dates he ever had until now were hook-ups for one-night stands, boys and girls who wanted a rush of exhilaration and a companion in their lonely bed: he hadn't cared then as to how he looked. But this was more. This was something unknown. This was something he cared about. This was a second date with John.

So he had texted George, seeking an answer to the ever eternal question: "What should I wear?"; George had replied, _"just wear your bowtie daddy outfit ;)"._ Which he did. Then when he was on the bus and texted George that he had listened to his advice, he received the following answer:

_George: "You idiot I was joking! This is a lazy night date, not a fck posh party!"_

Which was why he was now standing uncomfortably on John's doorstep in his suit. He looked ridiculous. John was going to think he possessed only three pieces of clothing: a sweater, a suit and a pair of trousers. But well, he hoped John would still like it; or provide him with more comfortable clothes to wear; he should have worn his Bowie sweater.

He didn't register that during all this, he had absently scratched the front door: not a knock, but it was a timid noise asking for entrance, while the mind was busy thinking aimlessly, stalling for time. The moment the door opened to reveal John's presence, Paul jumped up and stared.

John, as always, looked gorgeous, with his hidden adorable streak and exterior fierceness. In his black transparent floral dressings gown that he had worn the first time he saw him, he looked comfy in a white New York tank top. Polishing his glasses on relaxed fit cotton white trousers, he didn't look at him yet: the gesture was casual, and for once John seemed thoroughly at ease with him. Barefoot, cuffed ankles, normal, he sent him a cheerful hello, unashamed, which made Paul smile. He hadn't put any effort to style his hair, just the same low ponytail from the previous date with two streaks hanging in front, and others flying above. When he put his glasses on his majestic nose, he blinked repeatedly, squinting eyes gradually opening more for Paul to witness their chestnut brown. He seemed to be the perfect picture of tranquility, which Paul hadn't observed in John yet; how he longed to snap this in his mind forever. John, natural, not concealing anything, being joyful when seeing him. Paul was dazzled: somehow, John appearing like himself in front of Paul, in harmonious clothes, soft eyes, an adorable hairstyle and firm body, relaxed, meant much more than anything else.

When John seemed to finally see bright and clear, he grinned at Paul, until his gaze lowered to his clothes, and the smile fell for a second. Blush crept to Paul's cheeks. John's mouth twitched; grimaced; then he was slapping his hand on it and trying to muffle the giggles and cackles yearning to escape, in vain. His other hand held his stomach, doubling over. Paul's hands covered his eyes, hiding his worsening blush. John was laughing hard. At him. Damn it he had ruined this.

"Hey it's ok," John managed during his laughter, taking away Paul's hands so he could see his eyes. His toothy grin took his breath away for a second too long. "This ain't really a posh place, but I feel quite honoured you dressed like that for me. Makes me feel like I'm part of the elite!" He said with a higher tone on the word elite. Paul blinked. Once. Twice. But John's twitching mouth was too funny to see, and with a soft "shut up" he was laughing with him. It wasn't so bad after all.

John pulled him inside. The living-room was lighted, the couch covered in pillows, the coffee table set for the dinner with cutlery, plates and candles, and the far wall full of windows showed a beautiful night sky above Liverpool. He felt a tug on his hands — he realized John was still holding them — and looked at John, who motioned for him to take off his shoes and let them in the entrance. As Paul crouched down and did so, he heard John speak in a teasing tone.

"So why did you dress like that really? Wanted to look classy for me?"

Paul huffed in frustration, remembering his own idiocy and George's lousy joke.

"It's because of George," he grumbled as he got up. "He said I should dress in my 'bowtie daddy outfit' and he was joking but-"

"Bowtie daddy?" John interrupted him. His mouth was agape, and there was a light flush to his cheeks. Paul took a moment to process the nickname, not catching on the obvious kinky insinuation in the name rapidly. Once he did, he pinched his lips together in embarrassment.

"I-... it's a nickname. George had made it up before you came in the restaurant, said you'd like it. The nickname I mean. So… yeah," he said, scratching the back of his neck, not wanting to look up. After a minute, he heard John utter, almost to his own self.

"... that's not untrue," Paul's eyes widened. He stared: John's cheeks were darker now. Did he really like- "W-Well!" John clapped his hands together. "Let me get you some comfier clothes. You can choose a disc meanwhile."

Next he was running off to his room, away from Paul's eyes. So Paul shrugged the fact off. He moved to the record box, just under a table where a turntable rested. Rummaging through the records as he knelt down to it, he read each album's names. He found notable albums, and extraordinary and bizarre ones. Mostly he loved them all, or loved the artist. Classics such as the Rolling Stones or Jimi Hendrix; 80s glam ones; Deep Purple's Machine Head; Beach Boys' Pet Sounds; some disco compilations that likely belonged to Ringo; an ABBA best of; Queen, Thin Lizzy, Bruce Springsteen; Bob Dylan; Electric Light Orchestra and the Red Hot Chili Peppers; the list went on and on. There was even a Frank Zappa pink vinyl which was quite impressive. Paul loved all records: music being his passion, holding it in his hands felt satisfying. John's tastes matched his, and there were so few people of his age who loved old bands and clumsy records. Another common point. What to select… Beach Boys? John had worn a shirt from that band last time… alright, he would settle on that. He took the album, admired both sides of the cover, then placed the disc on the turntable and pressed the start button. As it started, he hummed along to the notes, watching it turn slowly. So much so that he lost himself in the music and forgot where he was and with who he was. He enjoyed it.

There was a hand on his shoulder and he whirled around. John was here, folded clothes in his hands, chuckling. As Paul stood, John showed him to the bathroom and he thanked him as he went to change.

It was the second time John was giving him clothes. This was becoming a habit.

This time John had lent him a pair of legging pants, snug around his legs, black, but with a warm and soft interior. With this he had a black tank top and a black sweater. Reminding him of his beloved Bowie sweater, he slipped in without noticing that it was a Queen one. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he admired the design: the album cover of A Night At The Opera occupied the center of the fabric. It was beautiful again. God, John consistently gave him the best clothes he had, didn't he? He felt grateful. He wished he could thank him properly one day.

When he got out of the bathroom, after having arranged his hair in a perfect shape once again, cozy in grey socks, John was at the entrance. He was thanking someone and grasping a paper bag. Paul looked on curiously as he moved farther in the living-room. Legs colliding with the bottom of the couch, he sank down, back gently cushioned by the red, yellow, blue, and every colour in between pillows. Cross-legged in front of John's advancing form, he tried to guess the content of the bag. He hoped it wasn't something expensive. And also, what he desperately hoped, was that John remembered that he was a vegetarian. He felt a drop of sweat. He didn't want to disappoint him by not approving his choice of food. Then John had a grin on his face as he plopped the bag on the table, glasses and plates jumping. Raising a finger in the air, he announced:

"Tonight Paul! For something completely different to your usual Indian restaurant," he spoke in a fake presenter voice. "I ordered Italian food, that I will present to you!"

Paul was already listing in his head every Italian dish with meat in it and praying it wasn't in the bag.

John took a first cartoon box out: he opened it. Inside was a squared bread smelling like olive oil and rosemary. It looked absurdly good, but was completely unknown to Paul. He had no idea of what it was called, or how you ate it.

“First, we have focaccia bread, a speciality in the North of Italia. Sort of an appetizer.”

Followed another cartoon box that was opened: stuffed peppers with rice, tomatoes, zucchini and spinach, grated cheese on top smelling of basil. He didn’t name the meal, for its appearance spoke for itself, and Paul was delighted at the absence of fish or meat in the box. Then another one was out, and Paul was wondering how they were going to eat all of that. This one contained a sort of lasagna without pasta: instead of it were thin slices of eggplant, overlapping each other with mozzarella slices in between, baked in thick tomato sauce and covered in cheese. The hearty and earthy smell swept through the room. Paul was pleasantly surprised; to him, eating Italian meant eating pasta. Well, that’s what he meant; it was inexpensive and good enough. But here he was faced with dishes he was unfamiliar with, looking more and more delicious.

John pointed to the box of eggplant.

“This is Eggplant Parmigiana. And last but not least!” There would be something else? God, Paul was already wondering how much everything must have cost John. He felt embarrassed with such treats, for free. Surely, he could pay- “Ta-da! A Meringata!”

Paul stared at the two slices of what seemed to be a beige frozen cake, in its little refrigerated bag, thoughts abruptly snapped shut. Because if there was one weakness Paul had, it was sweet food.

“It’s a frozen cake, with whipped cream sandwiched between two meringue rounds, and bonus! This one has chocolate chips in it!” John said proudly. Paul was transfixed by the beautiful cake. He had never ever seen such a thing and was entranced by it. His hands were crawling to the box, and John suddenly snatched it back, away. “Hep hep! That’s for dessert! Not now!”

Paul’s hands fell flat on the table, and he pouted: how could he be refused of such an elegant dessert! John laughed at his expression; Paul knew he probably looked more like a kid than an infuriated adult. The beautiful person who had bought that captivating dessert and dinner let the box and went to sit next to him, one leg resting halfly on the floor while the other was knee-bent, and John’s arms circled it, almost timidly. The foot on the couch was grazing his crossed leg. But John didn’t make eye-contact as he explained.

“I tried to make it original, because pasta isn't really a special thing for a second date. And everything is vegetarian. Just for you,” he shrugged under Paul’s grateful gaze. He had been so thoughtful once again. George was wrong: he couldn’t believe such an attentive man could be trouble to him; he seemed to bring the contrary in Paul’s empty life. He felt his mouth crack open, in an amazed smile. When John caught a glimpse of it, he blushed, chin digging in his shoulder. “Anyway I hope you’ll like it.”

Paul nodded, eyes sparkling. But John couldn’t see it. His fingers were twitching around his bent knees. Paul, wishing to express his gratitude properly, clasped the nervous fingers in his hands, making John swiftly look up. He raised them to his mouth. John’s eyes widened. His lips brushed John's hand. He never broke eye contact. Two lips kissed it, tenderly cradling it between his fingers. He whispered, with a warm smile and crinkled eyes:

"Thank you."

He didn't need to say more, for his tone was dripping with affection: the revelation of how much this meant to Paul.

John's reaction was immediate. His whole face became as red as a ladybug; a shiver wracked his body, and his lips squeezed shut. In one movement, he was away, turning toward the food, hands shaking as they held one of the boxes and sputtered as he tried to say that they should start to eat. Paul chuckled, obliging him. As tough as John tried to appear to others, he was defenceless against Paul's tender or flirtatious gestures.

They sat comfortably, close to each other. The record playing in the background was a soothing sound for whenever they would become silent, but it happened rarely. They hadn't needed a movie after all: the flow of their conversation was sufficient to fill the room with colors and sounds and visions. It started from a simple acknowledgement to Paul's choice of music and drifted to other bands, other albums, other notes and voices of the past, just like the last time Paul had sat on this pillowed couch. But the conversation drove deeper, to other subjects, exploring other matters, and other facts about each other. From a simple joke about an album cover, John developed his passion for art, and his short stay in an art school in Liverpool with a friend called Stu. Paul listened avidly to the man's story, discovering his aunt Mimi had gotten him a job in Central Library, as he never did anything at the end of his studies; he learnt of his avid love for books, but his hate for his job; he told him of his favorite novels and plays, from Oscar Wilde to _Alice In Wonderland_ . Next he knew the book was a gift from his mom, before she left him to his aunt Mimi when she met another man. He had grown up with her. The father wasn't mentioned. After a quick rant about how annoying Mimi was, he talked about how lucky he was to have a friend like Ringo, who had always been with him in hard times — which was something Paul could understand, as he felt the same with George. All of this was completed with jokes, ridiculous expressions, impersonations; downturned eyes and pauses in sad subjects; laughter and smiles under tender gazes. With one meal, Paul found out more about John than anyone else, and he loved every second of it. He mostly listened to the words, but also admired each of his mannerism and peculiarity: the way he often turned sad matters to humorous situations; how his voice went graver and more energetic as he spoke of passions and loves; how his hand delicately flew when he said what he considered to be evidence; the tilt of his head when he overheard something he disapproved; and the sparkle in his dazing almond-shaped eyes behind round glasses when Paul giggled or chuckled. The auburn haired man was growing on him. He was captivating. Every word, sentence, action were cherished. But Paul didn't only listen. While he kept to himself the facts that were too close to home – literally — he shared bits of himself, trusting himself to open up with John. He shared his equal passion from art of the early twentieth century, especially from Magritte; he told of the fact that he didn’t pursue his studies for long and had been working for a year now in the restaurant; he named a few of his favorite books, sharing John’s liking to _Alice in Wonderland_ ; his close relationship with his family and his bond with George. So he did talk of himself too. Less. He was more of a conversationalist than an oversharer.

The sole thing he disclosed, that was a bit too close to home, was his mother’s demise. He didn’t dwell on it; it was mentioned because John had asked. But he brushed it off. John had sensed his wish and had asked about the food.

Because Paul hadn’t forgotten about the dinner that had been laid for him. The delicious dishes, stored in their boxes, had all vanished. It had been tasteful, surprising, addicting. When he had seen it all, he had been convinced they wouldn’t finish; well, they did. No matter how deep their conversation had been, it hadn’t stopped them from emptying each plate. It was a pleasure, offered by John to Paul, and who was he to deny it? That would be unprofessional, impolite. A real shame, honestly. The bread had been salty and original, the peppers cold and refreshing, the eggplants surprising. But the dessert; God! Paul had momentarily stopped speaking, and John couldn’t get an answer before it was completely eaten, the sweet cream melting on his tongue. Once he was done, he realized his silence, and had blushed under John’s teasing gaze. So he had to admit to him that yeah, sweet food was something he loved.

Soon, they were done. While John took out the plates and went to wash the dishes — he refused Paul’s help, repeatedly, to the waiter's frustration — Paul wandered aimlessly in the flat. As he did, he thought of John. He had treated him like a prince; like a special person; someone worth being catered to. Offering dinner, comfy and warm clothes, inviting him to his home — a part of himself — ensuring he was welcome, listening and talking to him as if he was fascinating. He was only a delivery lad and waiter in a local Indian restaurant, which had only grown in popularity thanks to George. Who was he to John? John was a client that could pay for dinners and such. A librarian who had a wide and pleasing to the eyes flat. An attractive and adorable man who had a dear friend, passions, possessions. A person who had his life together. And yet, he had taken an interest in Paul, a deliverer, a waiter, who was only one by chance, and whose sole merit was his unwavering professionalism and immovable hard-working drive. That man wanted to be with him, and not just for a one-night thing, like the rest of previous meetings. No, he liked Paul. And he showed him, in everything he did for him. Perhaps, some would think it was nothing, what John did. Not him.

Paul couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so special.

He had passed in front of a blue-ocean room, where a cardboard had been fixed on the opened door: it said “Ringo”. Therefore, he didn’t enter. He pursued his walk, to be faced with another room. This time, it was John’s. It was easier to guess, because the room was harmonious and immaculate — something that couldn’t match with Ringo’s colorful clothes and overly cheerful personality. He paid attention to the noise from the kitchen: John was still washing dishes, humming to himself. So Paul stepped inside the room.

Inside the white and brown walls, a window hidden by thick green curtains, were a wide dressing, a desk full of art supplies and pencils to write, a tall shelf full of books of varying titles and subjects, and notebooks empty or filled. The bed was untucked, its white clean sheets on the foot of the bed. Paul went farther inside, socked feet on a dark green carpet that faded into white. That was how he noticed a curious object in the far corner of the room. Indeed, next to a bedside table was a dark form, not too tall, large on the bottom and thin on top. That caught his gaze. When he approached, climbing on the bed, he switched on a red bedside lamp. Illuminated, the form took a much more familiar shape. Creased eyebrows hastily flew up, and greedy hands were about to grasp it, when Paul halted himself. It wasn’t his. He shouldn’t touch it. Not without asking. That was plain impolite and unprofessional, two words that couldn't possibly match with Paul. But then again… When was the last time he held one? When he came to George’s place? That was a year ago; he couldn’t recall, there had been some other matters at hands. All this time… Surely, at least taking it out of its bag wouldn’t be a bad thing, would it? Paul bit his nails. Just to see it. Just to...

The object was in his hands. He extracted it from the bag with uttermost care, slow and controlled despite shaking fingers. Placing it on his crossed legs, he stared at it. A guitar. A gorgeous brown acoustic guitar. Shining grey strings. Polished wood glowing. Paul’s wide eyes swept over it, from its long neck to his deep hollow chamber in the middle. Awestruck.

Involuntarily, the sleeve of his sweater grazed a string; the sound of an E echoed in the room, resonated in his heart, rich and clear. Paul’s entire being shook. A flood of memory crashed in his mind: the day he received one as a gift; times when he played fifties rock pieces in family parties; snaps of himself proudly showing to his parents the new song he had dissected and learnt; his mother or brother asking for their favorite song to be sang; lonely nights as he rang the strings to himself, because there was no one else anymore, because it was the only thing he had left of himself; the day he sold it, his old guitar. It was too much. His eyes welled up. An overwhelmed smile crept on his face. He hugged the instrument close to his body. His right hand fell familiarly to its neck, left one holding the lower part. He experimentally tried a few chord positions, without grazing the strings. Taking his time, learning again how it felt; rough textures sliding easily on his fingertips. With a gulp, he nodded absently, remembering a few notes progressions, and his E scale. He hadn’t lost it, his knowledge of it. He gazed down at the strings; his left hand waited to strike them, trembling. It begged to touch. He concentrated, determination painted on his face. Slowly, his fingers slid down the strings. A C chord. Vibrating in the room. In his soul.

And so, he played.

Unstoppable, unthinkingly; joyful and elated. Floating on a cloud of fond happiness. He played and played and played. Chords after chords, notes after notes, snaps of known songs mixed with imagined progression. Everything and nothing. Nothing and everything. Feelings bursting through the instrument’s hole. To engulf Paul, the room, and the flat, in a music that cried about a recovered freedom. Paul was lost in the music, the touches of his fingers on the strings, healing. The world around him dissolved into whiteness. It was all.

“You play well.”

Paul sprang up. He slapped his hands on the strings, halting the music with a loud "slam". Hugging the instrument to his chest, afraid someone would take it away from him. Seeing John's face, leaning in the doorframe, smiling. Remembering this wasn't his: he had no guitar.

"Shit mate I'm sorry I shouldn't have," he rushed out, quickly putting away the guitar on its bag, away from his betraying hands. Then he captured them under his legs, and they stopped moving. John chuckled, coming closer.

"It's ok. I heard you from the kitchen. It was really good," John said as he sat in front of him on the bed, back pressed to the wall. He took the instrument that had been abandoned. Cradled in his arms, he played a few chords on the instrument, under Paul's mesmerized gaze. John was a guitarist too.

The man became more and more fascinating as the night went on. His warm face ducked down to peer at the strings, his hair falling on his eyes, his delicate gestures as he plucked the notes; it was another side of John, the soft and vulnerable one, that Paul had caught behind his tough exterior. It was a gift. When he started to hum, his throat vibrating, the sound reached Paul's ears. Then the humming turned to words. A song Paul didn't know, a poem in a music, produced by a coarse and nasal voice, raw emotions floating in the air, yet gently, softly. A soothing melody. Made by a lovely man. In front of Paul, not worthy of hearing such vulnerability.

Paul was a romantic at heart: he liked silly love songs, romance, affective gestures, secrets of the heart and believed that strong embraces at the end of the day were the cure to horrible saddening hours. Which was why, at this moment, he thought he was falling in love with John.

But the man abruptly quieted down, stopped playing, silent. A light flush on his cheeks, matching Paul's. The black-haired man was disappointed that the sound was gone.

"I used to have a band," John shrugged, nose up in the air in a regained pride. The information made Paul in awe. A band: how he had dreamed of being in a rock band when he was younger. "Ringo had one too. We used to play old rock songs from the fifties to the sixties. Went on from, I don't know, three years or so. I was the leader, singing and playing rhythm guitar. It's been a while now."

"That's why you sing so well," Paul whispered to himself, but John heard the compliments, and the tips of his ears reddened. He scoffed, dejectedly.

"I don't think so, Paul."

Paul's eyebrows knitted together, obviously vexed at the prospect of being wrong. Because he wasn't. He was right. He was always right. It was his opinion, and John had no say in it. So he said in a huff, back straight:

"Well I think so. I think you have a mesmerising voice John," John's comical expression slowly became attentive. Yet Paul had continued. "I wanted to be in a band when I was a kid you know? And you know what? I would have loved to sing by your side."

John's eyes widened, cheeks as red as his auburn hair. He fidgeted around, squirming, not knowing where to put himself. Paul found it endearing, this almost shyness at every compliment that the man received. It was a delight to witness. But there was a meaning underneath: an insecurity or a lack of confidence in himself, that made John react the way he did. Somehow it was challenging Paul, daring him to change it. He swore this day that he would make John realize that he deserved every compliment in the world.

"I-I," John tried pitifully. In vain, and he snapped his mouth shut, frustrated at his lack of words. Distracting himself, he laid the guitar on his legs. Paul remained patient, appreciating the moment. Finally, he built himself up again, smirk dancing on his lips. "And how do you know how to play guitar so well then? None of the guys in me band were that good."

"I dunno," Paul shrugged, fingers absently picking on the sleeves of his sweater."Got the guitar as a gift and I figured it out by myself. I used to play a lot on any occasion I had you know. I loved it."

"Used to? You can't find the time to play then, like me?"

"Oh not at all. I just don't have a guitar anymore," he let out, as if it was evident, ordinary. Which was why he was a bit surprised at John's reaction.

"What?"

He had a perplexed expression, mouth open in confusion. It seemed exaggerated a reaction to Paul. Paul leaned back on nothing. He dragged out his next words. 

"Yeah. I sold it."

John's confusion morphed to shock.

"But-But you said you loved it!"

Paul realized that the man wished for an explanation. But this fact was a bit too close to home once again. It was linked to his personal life. As much as he appreciated the man, he wasn't going to spew his problems and his past to him yet. They weren't supposed to be shared. He didn't want pity or shock or sympathy or anything. It was normal. So Paul turned defensive, tone harsh and abrupt, something John hadn't yet seen, which made it all the more powerful.

"We needed the money. Besides it got in the way of work," he cut. The coldness in his voice froze the room. Maybe he didn't need to be that harsh. Self-conscious, his lips turned back to a courteous smile, reassuring John with an open face. "It's ok, though. I had the chance to play again now you know. So it's great really."

Somehow, this didn't seem to bring back John's earlier warmth. His mouth was downturned. He shouldn't have said what he did. He should have been more careful with his words. It put off the whole mood of a date that had gone so well.

John cleared his throat, seizing his attention. He was toying with his streaks of hair that had escaped the ponytail. Hesitant. Paul internally winced at his visible awkwardness. If he had behaved this way with a customer, he wouldn't have forgiven himself. But he focused back on John.

"You wanna play something again?" John proposed. Instantly, Paul's face lightened up. John went further. "You mentioned you sang too, so if you want, I'd love to listen."

"Yes I can!" He answered, overexcited. Rapidly the guitar was back to his chest, hands in position, strings ringing as he grinned. At that point he realized his clumsy haste, and peeked up, embarrassed; John was amused again, his warm smile back. Paul's lips curved up, shyly. "Thanks."

The prospect of playing and singing in front of John made him nervous but excited. Excited to connect himself back to the instrument; overjoyed to sing and play; nervous to John's reaction; impatient to show him what he could do.

After a few chords played mindlessly, a few plucking and whistling, he lunged himself into a rendition of one of the first songs he had learnt and played: Twenty Flight Rock by Eddie Cochran.

It was the song he wished to perform to John. He wanted it to be the first song he heard from him. Because it was old, because it was rhythmic, because it was exhilarating, because it was rock'n'roll, and they were born with it. It electrified the room. His feet were taping his crossed legs, his head was bobbing up and down, he was grinning as he belted out the words. His right hand was flying chords to chords, his left hand hitting the strings with energy and strength. He sang high and low, eyes closed. No notes were missed, no words were scraped. Purely flawless. Surprising himself with this song that he hadn't played in years. Floating in the air, forgetting the room, escaping the flat, jumping high in the sky and dancing in the clouds, taking John with him in his frenzied entrancing song. They went up, up, up, until they approached the end. There, Paul took them back down, on the ground, in the flat, in the room, on the bed, slowly, quietly. Eyes that had squeezed shut in happiness relaxed in closed lids. Taking the song to an imagined end, in a fictive solo created by Paul’s hands, solely his. The frenzy departed for the calm of last few words and last few notes. They didn’t belong to Eddie Cochran anymore: they were Paul’s. In this imagined path, he found a finishing line, resembling a ballad, with sudden strokes of romance and love in both lyrics and melodies. A serenade, invented. A medley. He brought them to it. His fingers struck a final chord while his other hand grazed the strings one last time. As the conclusion rang inside John’s room, the fingers remained immobile; waiting for the sound to attain its completion. He waited. When silence fell in the room, his hands slid together to rest on the guitar’s frame. Paul opened his eyes, seeing his hands. He breathed: he had finished.

He lifted his head up from the cherished instrument, to its kind owner. His breath was caught in his throat as he faced John.

Awestruck. Feet tucked under his thighs, chest propped up by his hands, almost not moving. Leaning back on the bed frame, needing its support. Strands of hair frozen out of the ponytail. Lips parted in admiration. Cheeks rosy. Almond-shaped eyes rounder under their round glasses. Chestnut colors shining with faint twinkling stars. Directed at him, at his eyes. And his stillness. His unmoving frame and stilted breath. Mind-blowing; for John, as he appeared so; for Paul, as he was struck with the man’s almost antique body. Like a statue of the Renaissance.

John licked his lips, seeming to come back from the fall. But his gaze stayed fixed on Paul’s eyes. Piercing his soul. There was a thick tension in the air: enveloping them, ensnaring them in this locking stare. Impossible to move. Impossible to think. But it would soon break. Paul knew; dates for a sole night had moments such as this one. Yet, this had been different. This time was more complex, was more intoxicating, more mysterious. Unable to be comprehended thoroughly. There was just something between them, something that music had composed. Something unnameable.

John moistened his lips once again. It was as if he was mustering his energy, to speak. For a second, his eyes broke contact, just for the sentence to start. He had said:

“You really are amazing, Paul.”

In an instant, Paul snapped. In a blur, he had let go of the guitar and lunged on John. He had him in his arms, pressed to the bed and his chest, and had captured his thin lips with his. And he was kissing him.

It was a rush of feelings, ones that clogged up his brain and took over his mind. A rough kiss, where his lips kept moving, asking for entrance and John granted it. Teeth clashing as the sheer strength of it made their body shudder in unison. Desperately wanting more from the beginning. And somehow, a wave of relief, between the wet sounds of their lips and their moving limbs. John’s hands were squeezed to Paul’s chest, while Paul’s were both cradling John’s cheeks. It was a mystic experience. A proof that this something was there for both of them. A trance, inducing emotions that Paul had yearned his whole life to feel. And he felt them with John.

However, Paul started to dominate the kiss. He won against John’s tongue, letting him conduct the motion. He grew more passionate. His slippery kiss was fueling his mind. His hands roamed on John’s chest, then lower, tracing his clothed stomach. John’s body was perfectly pliable underneath him, allowing him to touch, granting permission to act, to go further. The man seemed lost in the kiss. Gone to Paul's motion from his grinding hips to his clutching hands, his lids were shut as he panted. Paul’s passion pushed him deeper, lips nibbling on John’s lower lip before diving back, just for a breath. His earlier greedy hands had not been satisfied yet. They crawled under the soft stomach he had fondled. They attained an obstacle: a waistband. For a moment, Paul’s fogged thoughts had been interrupted by a moan, and he halted his hands to seek more of the noise with his lips. They moved to John's neck, sucking on it greedily, ceasing only when John moaned once again. His half-lidded eyes admired the streaks of John's hair untucked from the rubber band, before diving back to his reddening lips. But the clouds in his mind were thickening. Soon, the nails were grazing the obstacle. He felt John underneath becoming even more pliable, his body still. As if waiting. Then fingers pushed in. The body trembled, and John’s hands on his chest became tense fists; anticipating just like Paul. Then his hands slipped in. The obstacle was crossed.

A thrust. A harsh push. Shoved away from the body, by John’s own hands. Head colliding with the end of the bed. Quickly grasping at the sheets, he balanced himself on his feet. Eyes as wide as the hollow chamber of the guitar that laid next to him. Frozen. Shifting was heard from John’s position, but Paul couldn’t notice. Too shocked to really understand, until his clouded mind became clear again, and recollected what had happened: John had pushed him away.

With a low rhythm, he straightened. When he was sitting once again, he was faced with a different John. One who was as shocked as him. But one who seemed alarmed. Eyes wild; not by passion, but fear. A frightened boy. Had Paul read the signs wrong? Had he been alone in his emotion? Had he ruined everything by his lack of perception? He was beginning to be eaten by doubts and guilt. What had he done? This wasn’t like his previous one-night stands! This was a serious relationship, with a man he cherished: what hadn’t he thought? Why wasn’t he more careful? He had slipped out of his own control. He should-

“I’m sorry.”

Paul had been so ensnared in his own mind that he hadn’t noticed the heart of his concerns and doubts. He regretted it: John’s knees were drawn to his chest, and his chin partially hidden by them. Each hand was grasping a knee, tightly. He had closed himself off, as his voice cracked with vulnerability. Paul listened to his every word, as John spoke, looking down.

“I-I panicked. I’m sorry,” he repeated, feet shifting on the bed. He inhaled, breath trembling. “I… I have, sort of commitment issues. I-I can’t get too close too fast. ‘Cause people leave. And…” he broke from his explanation, from the admittance he had never said out loud. Paul let him find the words he desperately needed. “I guess I got scared. It’s just, previous relationships, romantic or not, kinda fucked me up in the head. I just- God! I’m so useless, it’s my fault I shouldn’t have reacted like that, I’m pathetic I-” he was trembling, lips curling, teeth biting them, nose scrunched up and eyes that were usually so warm, glistening. He shook his head. His face hid behind his knees. “I ruined it.”

John had curled up on himself.

He had admitted to Paul his probably gravest fear and vulnerability. He was giving it to Paul, leaving him to do as he wished with it. A secret of his heart.

And Paul’s eyes softened. He understood.

After a moment where Paul gave John time to compose himself — without having the illusion that John would be alright if he wasn’t cared for — he shuffled closer to the shaking form. When his crossed legs touched John’s, he called out to him, with a quiet “hey”. John’s eyes peeked from behind his knees. Paul’s hands clasped his, dragging them close to him.

“You’re not fucked up. It’s ok. I should have asked,” before John could begin to object, he shushed him with a comforting press of his fingers. “Everybody gets scared, and everyone has their own paces. If yours is slow, it doesn’t make it any less valid. I’ll respect it. I'll be mindful of it. It doesn’t matter to me, how fast we go, as long as you’re happy.”

John’s head shyly withdrew from his knees. He was looking at Paul’s eyes, seeking the truth. When it seemed he found nothing but sincerity, he didn’t know where to look. Paul took care of every detail, making his expression soft, his face open, his hands warm, and his presence reassuring by extending his legs so they were hugging John’s form. He swore to never scare him again.

“What if my pace is really slow?” John eventually asked, miserable eyes still creased. “Will you still wait for me?”

“John, what did I say?” he chuckled. His forehead lowered to John’s. “I will. No matter how much time you need. I’ll give it to you. Because I’ll be happy to take things slow with you. One day at a time.”

John whispered a quiet ok, and nodded, eyes closed. The man took in another shaky breath, worrying Paul for a second. But his head turned and lips kissed his cheek; a light press of his wet mouth. Paul’s arms embraced him, and the poor man’s head slid to his shoulder. They stayed there for a moment, both needing it. Both not realizing this was the first time they were so close to each other. Both not caring.

Afterwards, Paul had guided John back to the living-room, and suggested he laid on the couch and found them a movie to watch: Paul had been promised a movie tonight. John had nodded absently, slumping on the pillows of the couch. Since his admittance of a concealed vulnerability, he had been subdued. Paul comprehended it. John needed a somewhat after-care, and he would prove he could be there, and he cared. He had laid a duvet on John’s legs, one he had found behind the couch. Then he had stepped in the kitchen, looking for everything he needed to make a chamomile tea. He was quiet as the water boiled, two teabags in two mugs. He could think about a lot of things; he was too tired to. Drained by the rawness of the moment that had transpired. Wishing only to come to John and stay close to him.

He wasn’t a client anymore. He was his boyfriend, who needed him.

When the mugs were ready, he took them to the living-room. He switched off the main light as he went, knowing the smaller lamp next to the couch would be enough for the night. He had no idea of the time. As his steps echoed in the room, John’s gaze moved from the television to him: a faint smile graced his lips. Paul smiled in return. The sight was worthy of any wait. Paul gave him his mug, accepting his thanks. He slumped next to him on the couch, taking a part of the large duvet to cover his own legs. The arm that didn’t hold his mug circled around John’s shoulders and drew him closer. John started the movie. It was an old film, neither funny or saddening. But the images were a blur, and the voices were distant as the film progressed and their tea was drunk. Paul wasn’t focused on it. He was only aware of a weight on his chest, John nuzzling his side. He tightened his hold, as he heard his breath slow down. Soon, he knew the man would fall asleep, after a date of emotional trials. It was a good thing. Absently, he unfastened the band holding John’s hair together. He played with it, listening to his breaths; they were relaxed now. Paul closed his eyes in relief. John was asleep, safe in his arms. He had taken care of him, because that was how Paul showed his love. He could relax. John was alright.

Paul thought he could get used to this, as he enjoyed the slow rhythm of the night. Not everything had to be fast. He had never known he could appreciate it; he never really took the time, for anything; he never paused. And John had given him the occasion to. One day at a time.

He might have fallen asleep too. The last thing he remembered was his head resting on John’s.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 9_ **

(~ 7600 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that happened... djskdjsd  
> I really really hope you liked it ! It was another big chapter, and surprise! Next chapter is bigger (it is the last chapter I'll post before my three weeks break after all so we gotta stop with a BOOM)  
> Don't hesitate to tell me if you liked it, what you liked, if you got the song ref (it is a beautiful song btw) ect. I sincerely hope you guys loved the chapter as much as I loved writing it.  
> All of you take care: we are approaching the end of the year, so take things slow and enjoy every moment you can ♥  
> See you all next Friday, and I wish you a splendid night or day ♥


	10. Sue Me, Sue You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Georgie mad. 
> 
> Guess Ringo will have to figure this out. 
> 
> A lot of discoveries are made: suddenly the sky isn't so blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! Last chapter before I take my winter break wow !  
> This is a particular chapter. This is completely different to what we have had until now. So I dont know you might not like it (or you might love it, idk how much you like angst). Let's say I'm middly nervous lol I mean, if you dont like it I understand why (ok I am big nervous)  
> But at least we are leaving with a Boom! 
> 
> Also I had a disagreement with my dear friend/beta reader Dee, who said this was her favourite chapter ... well I'm not convinced its the best but oh well 😅  
> also I haven't reread it before posting it,so there might be mistakes... sorry this week was so exhausting I haven't checked ao3 until yesterday and didnt have much time for myself....
> 
> Enjoy it, it's a long emotional ride... and I'll see you in the end notes lol
> 
> Warning: mention of past abusive relationship (nothing detailed but suggested) and past accident with its consequences, and poverty (I know it spoils the chapter a bit but i dont want to trigger anyone)

“George, may I have your opinion about Paul’s work performances lately?”

That precise question had been submitted to him the moment Mr. Bailey stepped inside the kitchen on this bright Tuesday morning in the end of May. George had arrived at the restaurant at seven to prepare for the lunch service and the dinner service. He could have come later, as Tuesday was never a busy day, but what else could he do except work? He had dressed lazily as always, not caring about such things as long as it was comfy and had worn his faithful apron over his black cargo pants and colourful poncho. The restaurant at this hour was always empty, and George could enjoy precious minutes of silence before the service began. Preparing quietly in his narrow kitchen, he’d whistle or hum, fooling the room by making it seem lively with his singing. He had time. Sometimes too much: he would indeed end up roaming around the empty restaurant room, or make himself a breakfast and tea. He knew Jacob, his kitchen help, would come around eight — or fifteen minutes earlier if he suddenly desired to humor him with his presence — Paul around ten, Jimmy around eleven, as he was on delivery service today. Same time, same habits. The unique person working in this place, who had a random timing, was their boss; well, more like the owner of the place who is, therefore, the boss — because it was actually George, the boss of the service and all the staff trusted him much more than Bailey. Douglas Bailey sometimes didn’t come at all, too busy with his other two restaurants. He liked gastronomy, but didn’t make it. No knowledge of it, as long as it looked good and made money. Sometimes, he would come to the restaurant, but for a short moment: an hour during the lunch service, an hour before, during the whole dinner service. Why? George didn’t know. To be honest, he avoided him; so much so as the man had been banned from his kitchen the day he dared say his saag paneer was “a little too green” and that he shouldn’t cook that because,“who will order something with no meat in it?”. Sticking his nose where he shouldn’t. But every so often, the man was in his office, sticking that same nose in his papers and money, and being able to keep an eye on his employees — except George.

Which was why it wasn’t surprising that at a quarter to seven, Bailey arrived, Jacob behind; it was surprising that he dared step foot inside the kitchen, George’s sanctuary, to speak to him. About Paul.

He had blinked at the question, a little taken aback. This was one of the rare times his boss didn’t hide behind fake pet names when talking to one of his “boys”. Perhaps, just a slip-up, but it proved the man was either concerned, or sneering. About Paul.

What had he told him? _“Don’t put your job at risk because of John.”_ And what did Paul do? As always, he didn’t listen to him, because Mister did what he wanted. And because of that John. Ugh, what an insolent man.

Yet George had decided to play dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sir. It seems to be as usual,” he said, stopping his preparations to turn and face the man, as he leaned on a station behind him.

Bailey was dressed in another grey suit, as always flawlessly matching his grey hair and grey eyes. All that grey, Richard would hate it; he smiled at the sudden intrusive thought about his colourful mate. He hadn’t seen the octopus lover in a while; the last time was last week. Fortunately they texted so much that it compensated for that missing time. Yet… George wouldn’t mind working with him again.

Jacob leant on the station opposite George, drinking a Starbuck coffee, indifferent.

“My dear chef,” Bailey called George out of his thoughts. He was back to the patronising pet names, dripping of hypocrisy and fake sweetness. Swiftly turning his eyes to the tall muscled man; he folded his arms on his chest. The man maintained an overly courteous smile. “You may have not noticed it, but our Paul’s work has been… how to say it, slackening, perhaps? He seems to be more often delayed on deliveries; and he doesn't pay attention to every client in the restaurant equally. Not only that, but he’s also getting clumsier lately,” Bailey listed plainly, as if he was delivering an administrative report of last month’s income. George’s mind became more and more infuriated as the list grew. Fucking John Lennon. That was all because of him. 

“Since you haven’t observed anything particular,” Bailey concluded. He turned to Jacob, who was playing on his phone. “Perhaps you, Jacob, have noticed something about Paul’s work lately?”

The man stopped slurping his coffee down for an instant. Next he shrugged.

“I don’t know Sir,” when George was about to sigh in relief at Jacob’s unknown collaboration, he was betrayed the moment after.“He just seems more absent lately.”

“That’s the word I needed! Thank you Jacob,” He said warmly, making George frown. Fuck fuck fuck. But again, Bailey was full of surprises this morning, as he continued, hands tied behind his back, his sudden approval to Jacob morphing to an artificial plastic smirk. “By the way, you’ll come to my office afterwards. I need to speak to you.”

“About what?” he replied nonchalantly.

“About the fact you have been quite absent lately too. I’ve seen that small man... with the blue eyes?” he looked to George, seeking a confirmation. But George was too dumbfounded to confirm anything, eyebrows rising. He could feel his kitchen help stiffen in front of him. “It seems he has been better at helping in the kitchen than you are. Quite problematic considering your job’s name. But we will discuss this later.”

George’s eyes were dilated, not having considered the possibility that his boss would know about Richard’s last two visits in the kitchen. When he glanced at Jacob, he was deathly glaring at him, for once not indifferent, not nonchalant. But then George remembered that he never really appreciated the man, so he brushed it off.

He would have loved to dwell on the fact that his boss knew about Richard, but the man had changed the subject, jumping back on Paul’s case.

“I’m surprised you didn’t note anything, chef,” he said with a hint of disdain on the word ‘chef’, lips curling to a grimace. George gave it no mind, too focused on what he was going to imply. “I would have thought you would. After all, he **is** your little _protégé_.”

That tosser. That was a low blown. George’s eyes narrowed sharply at that. He couldn’t bring that up. He shouldn’t. Not now. Not ever. His nails were digging into his arms.

About to spit back, not being intimidated by doing so, Bailey turned around, retreating from the kitchen. It seemed that he would just leave after throwing this insult to him. Yet, he had stopped at the entrance. What now?

“If I were you George, I’d try to identify the problem and fix it,” he advised, grey eyes sharp. But George couldn’t disagree with him. The man in his fifties graced him with a toothy plastic smile. “We wouldn’t want trouble to happen to our best boy after all.”

As much as George wanted to wipe that smile of the haughty man off his face, he had made a point: there was a problem. One that could put Paul in trouble. One named John. He knew from the moment he had met him this man would be more of a problem than anything else. How could he explain this sudden dislike? Even Paul didn’t understand it. But George was sure of himself: that time he actually talked to him, John only had questions about Paul, only wanted to see him, only wanted to be with a guy that had delivered his food once, and who he barely knew, except for his physical appearance. A crush over a five minute meeting? No, George didn’t believe in it. That wasn’t love. Lust, at best. And this wasn’t a good motive for ruining Paul’s job. Not at all. And the other times he saw Paul, or Paul talked about him, didn’t convince George that this man loved Paul. This wasn’t good for Paul. This was not worthy trouble.

This was a man that — and George was sure of it — would leave the moment Paul had problems. Because that wasn’t what he had fallen for.

So he stared at his boss straight in the eyes, and nodded.

“Of course not, Sir. I'll take care of it.”

***

Ten minutes later, George was at John's doorstep, knocking on the door furiously. He didn’t give a damn that it was too early, that it was rushed, that it was probably not thought through. He didn’t care. He had every right not to care. He would give this John a piece of his mind. Intimidate him for good. So he would understand that if he ever fucked up, George would be here — an image of himself pushing the lad away with a giant pan flashed through his mind. He had taken off his apron, wearing a fake leather jacket instead, and looked for once casual, except for his hair straight in anger, and his snarl slapped on his face. His chocolate eyes had darkened, sombre, and his whole stance was cold and threatening. It was necessary; George was not one to be walked over.

The door opened to a rather shy John Lennon: ruffled hair, gentle eyes, almost sleepy, white clothes oversized: yet his faint smile had disappeared as he saw him. George could almost feel bad, for bothering him when he looked so out of it and joyful; almost, but not enough.

It was eight something, the day had only begun: George didn’t give a fuck about everything already.

“Hello may I speak to you now thanks,” he ordered with useless politeness, knocking the still drowsy man out of his way as he entered the room. Not going further than the living-room, he sharply turned around, crossing his arms on his chest and straightening. The difference between him and John were quite contrasting; one was upright, fierce and eyes shooting at the man; the other was slightly bent, blinking in confusion as if he was still waking up. That same man pointed to the door as he was facing George, too tired to react yet.

“I was about to leave for work actually but-”

“Yeah well you’ll be late,” George interrupted him bluntly. “I don’t see why it’s always Paul who has to sacrifice his work time to be with you. So you’re gonna sacrifice a bit of yours to hear meh.”

That had the merit of jolting the man awake, sobering him up from whatever cheerful dreams he had. He blinked, before straightening too and glaring.

“What in the world are you-”

“I want you to break up with Paul.”

A second interruption. George didn’t want to give him too much time to speak; words were power in this conversation. He was in fact quite a talkative man; his apparent silence was used to gauge people, analyse them. Letting them run out of words, before having the chance to speak: that was what he had done with Richard when he had come in the restaurant to propose his help the first time — let him run out of words to discover his kind sincerity. With John, it was almost the same; George was simply not allowing him to speak, so he could barely think of words to reply. Defenceless and frustrated. Empty of words to say.

The same man had now been properly awoken, and was glaring furiously, his nostrils flaring. His fists were balled up on his sides, but they didn’t frighten George. He had seen worst.

“What? What the hell! Who do you think you are, barging in my flat and-”

“Someone who actually cares about Paul.”

And that definitely shut him up and made his nerves boil over. Now that this had been said, George could explain further, while the other was gaping like a fish, eyebrows rising sharply. Ridiculous. How could Paul love such a short-tempered man? No patience nor kindness.

He sat on the couch, making himself comfy, one foot up resting on the other leg. It was a rather nice flat when he stopped for a moment to consider it: all colorful in the whiteness of the walls, with large windows on the side. Richard probably loved those colourful pillows.

“Now you’ll listen to me,” he said as he locked his fingers together. Trying to remain polite but failing, because he couldn’t be as charming and diplomatic as Paul. “It’s important that Paul keeps his job, for reasons that I don’t judge you entitled to know. But because of you, he has been slacking off. The boss noticed it. Everybody noticed it. Because ya’re taking all of his attention and time. You made him late repeatedly for deliveries; you made him be late for service; he’s getting more distracted; the list goes on. All because of ya, Lennon.”

The vicious glare he sent met a fuming face. John’s fists were shaking, weary eyes were wide and wild. Despising the accusation, and certainly George too. But he was assured that the message had been conveyed: John was nothing but trouble to Paul.

It had finally broken the man; he was raging, furious, offended to the deepest part of himself. Yet George hadn’t backed down; his need to confront John and be faithful to his friend matched the man’s furious glower. Said mid-length haired man pointed to himself, in incredulity and fury.

“Because of me? Are you fucking serious?! Are you- Ringo!” he shouted to the kitchen.“Have you heard that right?”

Footsteps approached from the opened kitchen, and he saw him, Richard: dressed in a blue jumper with a black anchor in the middle, tight grey jeans, and his octopus shoes. His right earring shone with the rays of the morning light, and his rings sparkled as he moved closer to the action. He was scratching his permanent stubble that gave a rugged edge to an otherwise adorable face — and it wasn't his nose, that George just wanted to touch with his that would prove the statement untrue. Sky blue eyes looked up to John: the bluest eyes in the world. Ringo was purely a small ball of happiness and sweetness that George was fond of.

Yes, Paul was right — as always, would he say — about Richard: George genuinely liked him. Really.

But then he abruptly remembered that he didn’t come here to stare at Richard. He was here for his friend.

Ringo stopped next to John as he fiddled with the sleeves of his jumper.

“What’s going on again-” he stopped as he saw George. His whole face lit up. Literally brightened, his blue eyes even lighter. As if George's sole presence in the same room as him had cheered up his day.

Fuck. He really had beautiful eyes.

“Oh hi George!”

“Don’t ‘hi’ him Ringo, this is a serious argument,” John cut him off, to George’s disappointment. He was extending his hand in George’s direction. “He keeps accusing me of threatening Paul’s job! But I’ve got news for you, George: I have nothing to do in this!” he declared loudly, raising that hand in the air. “These are Paul’s choices. If he wants to spend time with me, if I’m more interesting than his work to him, well it’s not my fault. And you can’t control that.

“I’m not trying to control that!” George replied, his nerves flaring. “He’s my friend, and I want to protect him from-”

“From me?” Shit now John was interrupting him: he could feel the power shifting. John had a mocking smirk, as if he was too pleased with making his own words turn against him. “Oh please! I think Paul is quite capable of protecting himself. He doesn’t need your help.”

George internally winced: that had stung. Stung him to a vulnerable part of himself, one that always wanted to help Paul back, one that was overseen in favor of the little brother image he always had to carry. One that made him feel so small even after everything he had done, succeeded in, lived. One that quieted his anger down. Instead, he was looking at his hands, silent. Focused on their hold, the strength of each finger against the other.

“... I never said he wasn’t capable of protecting himself,” he began in a lower voice, more rested and more reflective. “I just wished he'd let us do it.”

He had overstayed his welcome here. His whole balance had been thrown off. He just wished to go home and calm himself before going back to work. That conversation needed to be closed.

Standing up, he remained focused, piercing John’s soul with his eyes. Ringo was on the side, looking at him with curiosity and… sympathy? Perhaps: the empathy of that man was too large for the world. They also looked a bit saddened, and George would do anything to comfort these blue angel eyes. Therefore, he would even become reasonable.

“Paul seems to like you, and I can’t change that,” he began, matter of factly. “So it’s your decision Lennon: either you break up with him, or decide to mature and be careful of Paul’s job.”

John scoffed at George’s threat, like a teenager would to their parent’s advice, even if they were worth listening to.

“Whatever. It’s just a job in a restaurant; he could get hired anywhere else. But if it’ll humor you.”

George didn’t elaborate further. He knew John was wrong. But it would be a waste of time contradicting him: he had done what he could. It wasn’t up to him anymore. Besides, he only wanted to drink a cup of tea in his warm home before going back to this modest restaurant and its problems. Not going to pick up a fight again, even if the uncaring man was taunting him this way.

“Believe me or not, I don’t care. But if anything happens to Paul because of you, you’re not getting out of it. Is that clear, Lennon?” he made a last threat, a solemn one, one that spoke of secret menaces and mysterious dangers. A warning to what could be; a caution that couldn't be brushed off.

John nodded. He also didn’t wish to pursue a fight.

George turned around, wanting to get out of here as fast as he could. He was tired again. But before going, he glanced one last time to his lovely substitute kitchen helper; his eyes were glued on him. In a last rush of energy, he dared smile at the man.

“See ya Richard.”

***

Ringo had been following George for a while. Approximately ten minutes.

Now this wasn’t stalking: this was him seeking out information about George’s emotions; angry, sad, happy, worried… Not stalking. Why? Because he had barged inside their flat, and ten minutes later he was storming out, not looking reassured in the slightest. An angry chef. Georgie mad, he thought. Once again. He had already witnessed that, the day he had come to help: there had been that impolite customer who had decried their restaurant as a filthy shameful place. George however, had been blunt, had not wasted his time, sent the man off. But here, he couldn’t do that with John, even though he tried; John was staying with Paul. Ringo knew that. He was sure of that. He had seen the look on John’s face this morning; that soft, timid look, too happy and yet reticent to think this was reality. He hadn’t seen Paul, so he judged the deliverer left earlier or last night. But, if John had worn such a look, it meant something had happened with Paul; something good. Therefore, there were no reasons for him to break up with Paul. Therefore, George’s problem couldn’t be brushed off. He would remain caged in his furious worry — because Ringo had understood George was only worried. Ringo understood too well; he had lived it when John had been in his previous relationship. It was a desperate feeling. He wanted to help. To follow George and calm him down. To discover the reasons for his anger and make him see it was alright. Because that was what he did best, helping: especially when it came to George.

They had walked down to the center of the city, not close to the restaurant at all, which had surprised Ringo. Where were they going? They had gone through Seel Street, then turned left to instantly turn to right,: right again, landing soon to Church Street; perhaps George was taking them to Cook Street, and the thought made him giggle, almost ruining his discretion. George hadn’t noted him, walking fast, straight ahead, escaping, tuning out other noises except for the one in his head. At one moment, he worried about his job; he was supposed to go to the Care House for the lunch service, as it was the one he always did. But the road to it was long. Then he remembered he could always do the night shift instead, and he let go of his worries. Moreover, George was slowing down: they had likely arrived. It had only taken a dozen of minutes or so. A quick look around to learn where he was, still looking forward: Leigh Street. It was a rather small one, but right next to the much bigger and commercial streets of the center. Partially hiding from the busy lively buildings, yet still hearing and seeing everything. Ringo was looking up; many windows closed and secretive. Nice silent neighborhood then. That was n-

Bumping into someone, he quickly stepped back to apologize, before he realized he had collided with George’s chest. The man was staring at him, blank faced, not letting Ringo in. Shit, he had been caught.

He waved his hand as a hello, which was undoubtedly foolish since he had already greeted him ten minutes earlier. So his hand shyly lowered to his pocket.

Fortunately — or maybe, unfortunately — George talked first, despite his lack of emotions on his face.

“Did you really follow me to my home?”

Oh. So this was where George lived. He noticed they had stopped for a reason; they had reached his home. He tried to see the number of the building, but the door was in between twenty-four and twenty-five; did he live in twenty-four Leigh Street or twenty-five? What a mystery!

You understood that Ringo was just finding anything more interesting than answering George. Not because he had no better excuse to offer than a simple “I wanted to make sure you’re alright” ; no, it was because he was also trying to conjure another excuse than that one. And it took time. Too long. George’s staring was slowly morphing to a glare, impatience seeping through his mask, making Ringo panic and burst out the sole motive of his action.

“W-well I was worried!”

George’s glare disappeared. But his furrowed brows remained. Confused. Asking an unsaid what. Conveying his message with no words. That he didn’t get what help Ringo wished to offer.

He tried to build his confidence back up. But he had no other alternatives than being honest with George. Than showing him he was sincere.

“Look, I know how you feel,” George scoffed as Ringo began, which made him flush in embarrassment.“I’m serious! You don’t know, but I actually understand! Because I went through something similar: with John. But it wasn’t the same!” he quickly added when he saw George catch his comparison, probably ready to interrogate him. He took a deep breath, wanting to finish. “I just want to help. To reassure you that you can trust John. But not only that: I wanna make sure you’re alright. I wanna reassure you, that it will be alright. Because you’re still worried. I know.”

Embarrassed once again; that was a lot of words and a jumbled mess. Way to go Richard. You made a fool of yourself once again. If John had been there, he would have already teased him for being a soft lad once more. But there was no John to reassure him it was ok, it was funny and wholesome: probably the only one who understood, because he was the same — or worse. But George? What would he think? That Ringo was naive and too good for his own good, offering his help for no valid reasons, following his heart without being able to explain why. Too used to caring about others’ problems: he would throw everything in the bin to rush and help a guy he knew for two weeks. God, and he had mocked John for crushing on Paul in less than a week, but was he really better? He was being ridiculous. He was so stupid sometimes, no wonder he never-

“You really are an angel, aren’t ya?”

Ringo blinked. Once. Twice. Lost for a second. Not believing the compliment, not comprehending from where it had come from, nor its motives. Trying to read George; he still wore his blank expression. Yet, there was a faint glint in his eyes, that left Ringo unknow to its meaning.

The chef hinted with his head to the door.

“Ok, you can follow me. I’ll explain.”

Nodding in excitement for having achieved his primary goal — that is, stepping in the narrow building — he rushed behind George. To a conversation he didn’t master. To a conclusion unknown.

They climbed until they gained the third floor. There were only four flats on each floor, and George’s was easy to guess: there was a bronze sun with a sort of face in the middle, as if it represented a sun king or god, stuck to the middle of the door. George opened the door for him and let him step inside first. After a short corridor where the bathroom was, they stepped inside a larger room. The flat was much smaller to his and John, but being much warmer and cozier. The kitchen and the living-room were in the same space; a brown door was open: George’s room. The walls were a fire brick red; all of the same colors, making it look relatively old. The kitchen was on the same wall as the one connecting the room to the corridor. Tiny but equipped as a real chef’s kitchen, all white. There was, however, a huge spices turnstile, completely full, and a tea corner with tons of tea bags and packages. On the lateral walls was a brown couch covered by a purple linen cloth and one cushion in Indian patchwork, that faced a coffee table where a TV rested, next to an incense holder and various boxes of incense. On the other side of the TV, two framed photos: one of George’s family, with him sitting down surrounded by loving ones; the other of him and Paul, so young, barely fifteen, hitchhiking on a road, grinning, posing for a selfie, arm in arm. In that picture, Ringo understood how close they were. How important it was for George. There was a smaller table in front of the couch, probably to eat, as they were no kitchen table. Next to the coffee table for the television, was a tall lamp pointing to the couch. On the far wall were three things: a sitar resting in the corner, a large window with fluffy eggplant colored curtains, and on the other corner, a wall hanging, of a yellow cotton fabric, depicting a tree of life and a sun above in black and red. There were other trinkets around the room, at random places, making it all the more welcoming and warm. Colorful in red tones, purples shades, and yellow tints. Indian as always. Somehow, it was typically George, and Ringo loved it even more.

George motioned him to sit on the couch. As he made himself comfortable, George looked around his room, searching for a way to stall his explanation. He found it as his eyes landed on the tea corner. He asked him if he wanted a cuppa, and Ringo graced him with a yes. It put him at ease, and he went to work. Preparing two cups, with green tea, cinnamon and ginger — Ringo never thought of putting such spices in his tea, but he trusted George was more qualified than him in this field. As they waited for the water to boil, George stayed up: sitting down next to Ringo would make him too uncomfortable. His left hand was moving on his crossed arms; fingers changing to different positions, then playing a soundless tune: it was as if, to relax himself, George was playing an instrument on his arm, changing chords, doing arpeggios. As a once musician himself, Ringo quickly identified the rhythm of the unsaid melody. He extended his hand on the small table in front of him, and gently started tapping a drum part to George’s absent guitar. It was a simple part, but effective, for George immediately looked at him, surprised, before smiling. Recognizing what he was doing. Ringo smiled back.

“So,” George began, a bit more relaxed than earlier. “You said you understood?”

It was an unsaid question: would Ringo be so kind as to tell George what happened with John? A conversation starter, of some sort. It wasn’t what they had to talk about, they both knew it, but Ringo was a generous man; he knew George needed his time and needed to be assured he could trust him. But it was hard, oh so hard to dive back into the past. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to. Pressing his palms into his eyes, forcing himself to just do it; this wasn’t about him in the end. He shouldn’t be so reluctant. It was to help. It was for George.

He would make this short.

“John was in a relationship, before Paul. Lasted three years, till it ended. The guy was named Thomas, he was in an emo band, and he was a piece of shit.”

There, he had summarized everything.

Judging from George’s dumbfounded eyes, it wasn’t enough. Or he was shocked to hear such vile words coming from the “angel’s” mouth — he didn’t understand that nickname. Not when he once had the reputation of a frightening teddy boy who could withstand any pain the world would put him through, and who had survived when so many didn’t during his childhood; from sickness to sickness. It had been a long time since then: now he was called an angel and he was going through pain, just to help a friend.

He straightened, hands rubbing his thighs.

“Basically, their relationship was ok in the beginning. For a year or so it was fine, John was on cloud nine,” then Ringo paused. He didn’t want to go forward. But George nudged him back, offering him his teacup: the cinnamon comforted him, the taste of Christmas biscuits on his tongue. So he went on. “But then it went to shit. The man kept pushing John around. Forcing him to try stuff. Oh, in the beginning, John wasn’t against everything: but it was taking a bad turn. It was clearly the man’s fault. I told John to break up with him, because that Thomas was nothing but trouble.”

George’s eyes flashed in recognition: a shared feeling, an unsaid comprehension, a bond over a common fear. Ringo sighed: he preferred when they bonded over cooking and Indian cuisine and weird compliments that were random but still nice to hear.

“While John didn’t break up with him, he actually listened. He realized he was maybe going too far... John is a soft lad at heart, very kind, helpful, and dreaming of a better world every day; he just got with that guy because he was still clinging on his rock’n’roll star dream,” he said with a faint smile; it turned down soon. “So he started to refuse. Started to ask for things to slow down. Cause he needed time. But Thomas didn’t like that. He began to manipulate him, emotionally. He’d disappear without telling John; he’d come home drugged out of his mind; he’d insult John that he was all fake. That he couldn’t live, according to him, “authentically” — that word still haunts him. Wanted to push him away from Liverpool, to drop everything for him, to leave, and never come back again. John refused. He wanted him to come out to his aunt and leave her forever. John refused. Living authentically just meant that John should become Thomas’ copy. John refused. But, well,” he sighed once again, looking at his cup. He shrugged his last words. “Some people don’t really care about consent or opinions you know.”

George wasn’t speaking. He was looking equally depressed. It was time to put this story to an end: he was tired and it was only ten in the morning.

“Anyway,” he sipped on his warm tea. “I begged John to break up with him. But Thomas did it just before him, to put the blame on his shoulders. Said he was leaving for good because of him. Because he was too fake. Another person leaving him....” Ringo trailed on, staring at the wall, lost for a moment in gloomy thoughts. When he blinked back to reality, he blushed in shame and quickly brushed it off. He had to connect this all to the present now; he didn’t want to dwell further in the past. “All of this to say that John isn’t Thomas. He isn’t going to do the same things he had to endure to Paul. You can trust him: he loves him.”

George’s sympathetic face hardened brutally, a snarl painting his features.

“I know that! That’s not what I’m worried about!”

“Then what is it?”

The frown twisted to a pained expression.

“Look, I’m sorry about what happened to your friend, and I sympathize. I don’t doubt that he’s a good guy. But it’s different.”

“Then tell me!” Ringo lashed out, so tired already, still raw from what he had to share. He was tired of being trapped between defending his friend and helping George. “Tell me what is different! Tell me the reason you’re worried! I can’t help you ease your worries if you don’t explain.”

For a moment, everything was still in the room. Ringo’s breaths were heavy with charged feelings; George’s were quiet and retreating. They both confronted each other, separated by a thick tension, full of misfortunes and accidents on the road called life. There was a weariness on both of their faces, as if none of them wanted to speak of any of this, but they had to, because George had come with a warning this morning: one that had to be taken seriously. Just like a character of a fantasy novel, telling you not to go further, not to swim further, not to step through that door: Ringo didn’t want to be the usual protagonist who didn’t listen and swam further.

Eventually, George moved to his window and opened the curtains: the weather was still as sunny as before, even warm. He stood in front of it, watching the street outside, drinking his cool tea. At this precise moment, Ringo was suddenly struck by his beauty. It was perhaps the tiredness of his gaze, the sadness of his mouth, the vulnerability emanating from him; in the end, it was the sudden nakedness of the man. Stripped of his chef poise, climbing down the pedestal Ringo had put him on to be equal to him, seeing the man for what he really was: not so different as him, with a too big heart that yearned for happiness and peace. Ringo wished he could give everything to George: this peace and this happiness. It wasn’t about helping George anymore; it was about being there for the man. For this beautiful man with his kind soul and pensive eyes.

George moistened his lips, still looking at the outside world. His grip on the cup was firm.

“John isn’t direct trouble; he will bring it.”

This was just a start. One more push.

“What kind of troubles, George?” he said gently.

“I’ll share the most I can. But you can’t say anything to John: this is Paul’s place to say,” he glimpsed at Ringo, to see him nod. He could begin.

“You remember when you asked me why I moved to this restaurant?” Once more, Ringo nodded, a flash of recollection for their last talk in the kitchen of Hot Chillies; a considerably more pleasant talk. “The reason was that it was the only place that would hire Paul.”

“What do you mean?”

To his inquiry, George replied plainly.

“Because Paul has zero qualifications. He barely finished his compulsory education with horrible results. He lives with his disabled father, to take care of him and support him financially. And because he could never afford anything else. He worked small jobs, in shoddy businesses. This is the first time he has a stable job, even if he’s the less paid employee of the restaurant. And it could go away so fast.”

To this brutal, completely disconnected summary, in shambles and bits, Ringo was trying to put back in place the picture of Paul he had known until now. It was as if it had been punched to a million pieces. Yet, he couldn’t connect the dots together; too many words weren’t supposed to fit. Too many parts that were unreal. Too much information that he hadn’t been ready for; that he couldn’t process at all. He had no context to support himself: the present Paul he knew didn’t match the story George said.

“W-Wait,” he hesitated. “Paul’s a bright lad, and he’s nice and works well and- how did this happen?”

George finished his cup, as he turned to him. He folded his arms to his chest and looked to the floor.

“Because of a series of bad luck, I suppose. Shit happens to people that don’t deserve it sometimes.”

He moved to the couch and collapsed next to Ringo. Resting his folded arms on his bent legs, he glared at the floor, as if it was the one who had put Paul through bad luck. But Ringo’s puzzle was still undone. So George continued. He would finally know. 

“Paul was a bright kid. Top marks in class, hard-working, great future ahead, and a family supporting him fully. I knew him for a while and admired him. Till one day, the mother died. When he was fourteen.” Ringo’s face paled at the word: he couldn’t imagine losing his mother. George had winced next to him, and without thinking, Ringo put his hand on his arm, trying to reassure him he was here. Listening.

“It threw off the balance of the whole family. But not Paul’s. And that was the problem: Paul shielded himself, while his family grieved. His brother’s marks grew bad, and his father became more and more drunk. Therefore, he was the only one left to take care of things. Supported his brother with school, took care of the home, sacrificing his own time by replacing his da’. Heck, he even helped me with school at that time,” he chuckled sadly. “He also picked on small jobs, neighbors things and stuff. Because without the mom, they were in a severe financial situation.”

There was another pause, and Ringo was glad for it: he could try to process the beginning of the story. Plunging into the origins of Paul’s character, slowly. But the pause was brief, and the story was yet to be told.

“Then another bad luck happened: the father got into a car accident.”

“What! B-but-That’s terrible!” Ringo couldn’t help himself; he needed to cry out his shock.

“It is. He got paralyzed from the waist down for years, spinal cord injury. Couldn’t work. The family chipped in a bit, but there were in serious troubles. That’s when Paul gave up school, at sixteen. His grades had been getting bad, and he was more distant to his school work. He couldn't be everywhere at the same time. His da told him to find a job, or he was out — it’s something that Paul remembers all too well. But, now, it has become impossible to get a decent job when you’re a poor student with no qualifications, no good results, no background. He only went from precarious jobs to precarious jobs. While still helping his brother and his father. At this point, he took care of everything.”

George stopped here, remembering everything, the memories passing in front of his eyes. His fingers were linked tightly together.

“Paul didn’t tell me of how bad it was for a long time. You know that he even chipped in for my Indian trip with money he had saved for himself?” Ringo’s eyes widened, making George's sad chuckles sound again. “Yeah, said he wanted me to be the kid who succeeded; just like me family wanted. It’s when I came back that I discovered everything.”

Unconsciously, Ringo’s arm circled George’s shoulders; the lad didn’t seem to mind.

“One night, when I was at the Mowgli, I saw Paul outside, next to the back door. He looked tired, yet he had smiled. He asked if I could house him for a night or two. When I took him home, he told me everything. He was jobless at the moment; his father was disabled, his brother left for London, and his last job had been too rough on him. He needed a place to stay till he found another job. There’s a rule, you see, between Paul and his father: Paul stays home if he has a job, because they can’t afford to house two people with only his father’s insurance.”

George let out a bitter laugh, suddenly breaking the mood of the story. He voiced out his thoughts, ironically, with disdain; to whom? Perhaps to Paul, his family, himself, the world. “Do you realize that he has to deal with everything, and yet, at the first mistake, he’s out? A fucking joke. No wonder he's such an unnerving perfectionist.”

Ringo couldn’t say: he didn’t know what he implied. The story moved on to its end.

“So, I didn’t want him to end up with a poor shoddy job once again. I tried to get him hired to the Mowgli restaurant, but they wouldn’t. I quit and tried other restaurants; they wouldn’t, even when they knew I’d be their new chef. Except for one.”

“Hot Chillies.”

George nodded.

“Yeah. The owner had said he was willing to hire him, but he would be paid less. It wasn’t ideal, and the restaurant was crappy. But if you had seen the look on Paul’s face when I told him I had gotten him that job- a decent job,” George’s eyes were glistening. “God, nobody should be so happy to hear that. But Paul was. It’s been a bit more than a year now.”

The puzzle had been completed: all the pieces were put together. A new portrayal of Paul had been created from the disheartening words he had to hear. One he hadn’t expected: when he came here, he expected George to be worried because of John solely — if he would harm Paul, leave him: he didn’t think he’d have to unpackage a misfortunate background and find a precarious situation, that was familiar to what Ringo once lived.

The portrayal was depressing him. If he could, he would like to go back in time and stop himself from entering this flat and asking for a dark story that made George so down. But now it was done: he’d have to deal with the consequences and accept his knowledge instead of ignoring it.

“The reason I’m worried isn’t really John,” George was looking at him, finally, after such a long time. Pools of deep brown into his warm sea eyes. A resolution under hurt eyebrows. “It’s about Paul losing his job. About him going back to the streets, to shoddy businesses and poor unstable jobs. About him finally breaking, because he can’t take care of everything indefinitely. I don’t want another bad luck to strike him.”

Oh, how well did he understand now. How loyal and generous George was. His motives were born out of a brotherly love that was so flawless it shone through the room. But the doubts, the fear, that laid underneath the sincere wishes. The little twitch of an eyebrow, the rictus of a lip, signs of a scared man underneath the bluntness and pensive face. They begged for support that the man was unconscious of. It called to Ringo, to his too big heart that yearned to be there for the man of a shining soul. Who was he to decline the call? Ringo made his resolve: his hands slid to George’s, and they captured them in his. George glanced at the motion, before turning curious eyes to him.

“He won’t,” he affirmed, determination set on his features. “If anything bad happens to him, we won’t let him get back to that time. You can count on us: both John, and me. And if you can’t trust John, well at least, you can trust me.”

He almost added a small “please” to that last sentence, but he refrained himself from doing so. He wasn’t that pathetic yet.

George remained silent for a minute. He was thinking, perhaps. Looking down, expression twitching and changing. Until the frown dissipated, vacated the room, was gone and away. In its place, a faint smile, growing stronger, lips that couldn’t help themselves and curled upwards. Eyes that were once glistening were almost sparkling. An innocent happiness, a flawless joy, taking over George, after such a long and hard story. A much needed moment of warmth, after what they both had to hear.

He nodded.

“Thank you, Richie.”

Ringo jumped on the occasion offered to him to lighten the conversation, and you couldn’t blame him for that: he hadn’t wanted to talk about John’s fears and his abusive partner, he didn’t want to hear of a poor lad who was more unfortunate than himself; he wanted to hear joyous things, because the troubles of this world were simply too much. But his friends were victims of such troubles now. Yet, it had not mattered to Ringo. He believed that in sadness was always a bright side, a funny moment, a loving gaze underneath everything bad: it was all a question of points of view to find them, and fortunately, Ringo was an optimistic man: therefore, he always saw them.

“Richie? That’s new. You could have called me Ringo,” he acknowledged in a teasing tone. But he was met with George’s shaking head.

“No. I wanted my own nickname for you,” the chef winked playfully. His hands slowly removed themselves from Ringo. He shrugged. “Sorry. For what I said about John: he ain’t that bad.”

“Ah!” he cried out with a goofy grin. “Is he finally growing on you? Oh, I can’t wait for the day you guys will become best buddies!”

“Don’t exaggerate,” he snorted, playfully shoving Ringo.

It was quiet for a moment. Taking on this opportunity, Ringo quickly checked the time on his phone: it was eleven. He should get going on. George had a meaningful job, more important than him. That was what he thought, but he voiced the contrary.

“I’m sorry George, but I’ll have to leave for work now.”

“Oh me too!” he quickly gasped. Sprang up, Ringo following him in the motion. Apologetic eyes glimpsed at him as they moved to the door. “I’m sorry. I hope you won’t be late because of that-”

“No no, it’s ok. It’s not important. What is important is if you’re ok. So, are you ok?”

George had been unlocking the door when the question was asked: he stopped his motion for a second. Staring at his immobile fingers. Gone to his head. Ringo was patient and waited for him to land back to him. Which he did quickly, with a grin.

“I am. Thanks to you.”

That was all that mattered to Ringo.

When they left the flat, found themselves in the streets, George sent a last glance at Ringo. Checking if he was here. If he was still by his side. To help.

Ringo gently put his hand on the small of his back. In the beginning, he just wanted to playfully push him forward: but he didn’t. His hand stayed there, as he smiled and said:

“I’m right behind you.”

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 10_ **

(~ 8100 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... what a beautiful way to leave for 4 weeks lol  
> I hope you guys have enjoyed this !!! As I said, I'm taking a break on this story for four weeks and will come back the 15th of January. If I'm not there at that time then I'll be back the 22nd (that meant there was a problem with my finals lol). If you miss me meanwhile you can always check my other stories, plus I might post one or two old things... we'll see 
> 
> Thank you all for supporting and reading this fic until now 💙 each comment makes my day and they're giving me reasons to share my work. I thank you dearly, and i hope to see you soon too (that break will be long without you all) 💙 
> 
> I wish you all a merry Christmas (if you celebrate it), a happy new year. Take care and have a beautiful day/night 💙


	11. Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three different points of view of the accident that happened on the second date.  
> John runs through all his emotions in a single day. Aka, he is being dramatic again, but also it's normal because why is no one nice to him? Why are they all mean, huh? It's unfair  
> Also Stuart makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO EVERYONE!!! I'm so glad to see you all again with a new chapter, it's been so long!  
> I hope everyone is doing ok, and had some lovely holidays ^^ or like- weeks if you didn't have any holidays lol  
> I'm back with chapter 11! This is a slow chapter, to get back into the rhythm of the story hehe (it has been awhile after all hehe).  
> Also I'm terribly sorry but I won't be able to upload next week, as my finals have actually been delayed and I'm only fully done the 22th (ive got 2 things left)... So chapter 12 will be on the 29th. Plus now, all the chapters are going to be big (like- none of them are under 6000 words lol) so it might take time.  
> But enough about that! As promised, we are the 15th of January, and here we go for chapter 11!  
> I hope you will enjoy it, and don't hesitate to share your thoughts on it in the comments ! ^^  
> Enjoy !

John was on cloud nine.

It was Wednesday morning; his date with Paul had been one day and a half ago, and he was still floating on happiness.

But also floating barely above a big precipice of insecurity and crippling self-doubt.

He was savoring a much needed breakfast composed of his favorite cornflakes and a warm tea with milk and sugar, Ringo busy going through his phone in front of him. Indulging himself in his head, he was rewinding — for the twentieth time since last Monday — the date and its morning after. How Paul had left in a hurry at seven thirty, but not before leaving a kiss to his cheek. How John had gazed fondly at the sleeping man’s relaxed features for thirty minutes before he was awoken. How John had woken up at seven with a dozing Paul’s head above his, still feeling subdued, but warm and content. How he had slept so soundly on his couch, feeling safe — an impression that had been long ago forgotten. How he had enjoyed Paul drawing him closer to his chest when he had closed his eyes the night before, falling asleep without a care about his fake bravado or his pride or any pretence he was supposed to have. How he had not cared for the movie, too far out to perceive anything but the presence on his head. The smile on Paul’s face as he brought his tea. The way he had guided him to the couch. When he had hugged him on his bed. Reassured him with just a few words. Even though he had been roughly rejected. By a man who had been scared.

Whenever he’d arrive at this moment, he would stop rewinding the little film in his mind. He put the tape on pause. After a long moment where he would be beating himself for what he had done and what he had experienced, ashamed and disgusted with himself, he would press play, and the movie would move forward, from this disgraceful part to the ending, where’d he get another kiss on the cheek. He couldn’t determine his favorite part, but he knew his least favorite: his panic.

And yet… Every so often, the shame was overthrown by Paul’s actions and words that had followed. Sometimes, they appeared mightier than the self-hate roaming under the prologue of the film. That was why he was still floating in the air, and not slipping in the abyss of a nightmare.

Never had Thomas reacted in such a way when John ever refused him. He would often convince him to say yes. Not to be a coward, greedy and unreasonable virgin. Until he grew even tired of calling him that.

But the movie was playing in his head, and soon the grim memory was flying away for the feeling of soothing hands directing him and caring words lulling him to rest. Once again smiling in his cornflakes.

Ringo had likely noticed him, off to his head, out of it, since yesterday. His work colleagues had remarked it. The people entering the library had noticed. Stuart had noticed when John had texted him the moment Paul had left:  _ “let’s see each other wednnesday for lunchc, i’m th softes mann in the world” _ — he was still pretty ashamed about that. And certainly that lady in the bakery had seen something was off when he took five whole minutes before saying he, in fact, wanted nothing.

He was so so far away.

That was why Ringo’s voice, surging after the play of the movie had finished, had been barely registered, mere background noise to his thoughts.

“So… How was the date?”

“Mmmh.”

“I suppose it was ok?”

“Mmh mmh.”

“... Fine. I see how seriously you're taking this then.”

“Mmh?”

“I think George was right. You’re not taking this seriously at all.”

At this part, this exact sentence, finally the white noise became clear, distinct and had launched itself to the foreground. The name of George, followed by another accusation, was a reminder of the trial he had endured yesterday. While it had greatly unsettled him at the moment, he had brushed it off for the truth of what he knew: that he wouldn't break up with Paul.

But it seemed this statement was disputed once again. Nobody wished to leave him with his cheerful thoughts.

“Wha- Of course I am! Why would you say that?” he asked, indignantly. A frown on his spoon of cornflakes.

The blue-eyed man shrugged.

“I don’t know. I talked to George yesterday, to try to reassure him not to worry, cause you would care. But you don't really seem to. You can’t even bother enough to tell me anything about it. Is it because it was that pointless?”

… why was everyone attacking and accusing him since the date happened? What the fuck! Why this torture? First George, now Ringo: should he have expected a phone call from his aunt too? To belittle him all the more? As if the world didn't want him to be happy for his date, as if it desired to stomp on his joy and weirdly good vulnerability feeling, until he returned to his worming insecurity and self-hate.

You know what was the worst? They were all succeeding in that regard.

“No! No, it’s not about that at all I- no!” he cried out, feeling a wave of despair swamp him, a shrill in his voice. He possessed no control of his emotions: he hadn't had since Monday night. But Ringo didn't believe him. What had George said to make his flatmate so doubtful of him? A sorcery that made him untrustworthy to his eyes. It hurt. As if he was never one to be trusted. Never...

Fuck George.

He rubbed his face with both hands. God he did not wish to open up about that. There was a reason he was avoiding that part. But, if Ringo wasn’t fed a substantial dramatic fact to convince him this was real, and not fake — he was not being fake this time he would prove it — then he wouldn’t leave him alone about it. Sighing as his hands slid down, resting on the kitchen table; they had shaken so severely in Paul’s.

“This was probably the most emotional date I’ve ever had, and I-I don’t know how to talk about it Rings…”

The whole “boohoo my voice is too weak to talk about this" didn’t succeed. Ringo’s eyes were still dangerously narrow above his prominent nose. Those chilling blue eyes: John bet they had been warmer around George.

“What do you mean John? And don’t bullshit me,” God such harshness in the morning! What had he done to deserve it? Wasn’t there anyone on this planet who had a little bit of respect for him? Was he such a pathetic low gay mess or something? He actually pouted at Ringo’s angry tone. Which was unfair, as Ringo couldn’t resist seeing John hugging himself with downturned eyes and a sniffling noise. The lad’s stance softened, dropping his phone and leaning closer on the table. “Come on, try. You know I’ll listen no matter how jumbled it is.”

… Well, it wasn’t top sympathy, but this would have to do.

Frankly, that George was a bad influence on Ringo: he used to be exceedingly nicer.

“The date was… well, it went well you know, for most of it. We had a nice diner and talked a lot and all. But....” John trailed on, distracted by an image of Paul sitting on his bed with his guitar, singing a medley starting from a famous rock’n’roll song to a completely imagined serenade to John. Then the aftermath.

He jolted as he felt a hand on his shoulder. Ringo’s. He was next to him now.

“Let’s continue this conversation on the couch. You seem to have a lot to say.” 

Without any other words, John followed his flatmate to the couch. As he sat, he automatically gripped his knees to his chest. Ringo was magnificently sprawled out, as always. He was evaluating him, silent. John went with it. 

It was time to speak.

"At some point, Paul was in my room, and he was strumming my guitar. And he played so well. I played it a bit too, and we discussed it a bit. But if you had seen the look on his face when he had the guitar — that pure unadulterated joy! He was so be- God did you know he had sold his own guitar?” John abruptly stopped his story, remembering that particular sentence that Paul had said so harshly and so matter-of-factly that it had frozen John to his core: _ “I sold it. We needed the money.”  _ In his indignation, he had straightened, legs flying forward and body pressing onward. This had been a horrible thing to hear. Selling a guitar. No, that wasn’t something you did.

Despite that, Ringo had merely replied coolly.

“No I didn’t.”

…. Hum. Ok then it wasn’t maybe that shocking.

“Ringo! This is a huge thing! You don’t sell a guitar! You don’t you-”

“John,” Ringo interfered, putting an end to his outraged rant.“Paul has reasons that you don’t know. He probably has a better judgement on what he can or can't do than us.”

John glared suspiciously, mouth open. This was an odd sentence, much too correctly said for it to be natural. There was something off here. He leaned closer to Ringo, trying to pierce the truth from his soul. Staring at him until the man became uncomfortable. He saw his lower lip twitch: John cried out in triumph.

“You know something! George told you something! What is it?!”

“Yes George told me, but I’m not telling you,” the dumbfounded look he sent him spoke for itself.“If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Paul. But what I can tell you, is that it’s the reason why I’m insistent on you taking this relationship seriously. And Paul’s job.”

Ugh, not again the job mentioned. Nope, that one he was still not understanding. But… the whole part about taking this relationship seriously… somehow rang a bell. A sort of warning that Ringo uttered to someone else in the past, in the defence of John. Too familiar, these words. Yet, in this present context, they had not harmed. Had not made him angry. They were legitimate. They were right. John had to take this relationship seriously; but then again, hadn’t he done that since the beginning? Since the moment he had laid his eyes on Paul? And if John was being honest, he was more scared about the contrary: that Paul wasn’t really taking this seriously. Somehow, nobody was asking this question: everyone was thinking he was the one destined to fuck up, and no one ever thought Paul could harm him in such way. Because John feared he’d do so one day.

“But please, tell me the rest of what happened,” Ringo moved on, not bothering to elaborate on his newly gained knowledge. This conversation with George had really closed him off, and now it was more saddening than infuriating.

“Well… then Paul played a song. Cause I suggested he play a bit more, since he has no guitar. For some unknown reason,” he exaggerated on the last part, with a pointed look to his flatmate, who completely disregarded him. Fine. Guess he really wasn’t gleaning that information. “So anyway. He played. So fucking well. God. Ringo I-I was… Blown away,” he trailed on as he finally dug in his story, lost himself to the memories. Slowing as he went. “If you had seen him… he looked so radiant. Magnificent. He had the voice of an angel and the scream of a rocker. I was too awestruck to do anything after. I… I think that’s why it happened afterwards.”

“What happened?” Ringo interrogated him. The irony that Ringo was allowed to pry information from John while he wasn’t allowed to do it wasn’t lost on him.

He took his time to phrase the following events. But words were escaping him. A brief description was all he had.

“... He kissed me. And I panicked.”

Silence. John’s knees were back to his chest.

“... For a kiss?” eventually Ringo said, gentle despite his bewilderment. Shame was covering John's face. “But John you-”

“It was becoming more than a kiss,” he abruptly ended Ringo’s sentence. He was hiding his head in shame, forehead on top of his knees. God what a fool he had made of himself. And because of what? Because he was a poor little boy who was scared to be thrown away once he was toyed with and left alone? Because the fear of committing to someone had clutched him tightly with the dreads of what it would imply and what might happen? The consequences and what ifs so strong they had blinded him for a second? A wimp. He had been a wimp.  _ The Diary Of John Wimp _ , if he parodied himself with a famous song. All because of his nonexistent family and his ex-boyfriend. Beautiful life he had.

“You know what this is about Rich…. I got scared.”

Ringo was shifting closer to him. He felt his weight leaning on John’s side. A gentle pressure, kind and calm. A hand rubbing his arm. His serene presence. The Ringo he knew. The Ringo who knew him. That knew what had been the problem, because it was always the same, and had only worsened overtime. Committing: bonding himself to someone else, giving them his love and trust, getting them all crushed in return; being alone believing he was all to blame because he wasn’t lovable; facing his aunt, hiding his true self to her, while hiding his pain to the only member of his family he knew, for fear of rejection once again. Commitment, to John, often sounded like abandonment. 

He shuddered, and felt Ringo’s arm circle his shoulders, squeezing it reassuringly. He was so pathetic.

“How did Paul react?” Ringo asked softly. His voice was no more of a whisper. “If he acted like a jerk, I’ll have a word with him.”

“No, no. No,” he shook his head as his voice cracked. God he didn’t want to appear so vulnerable. He wanted to break away from it. So he tried to attempt a joke. “I just didn’t expect him to become such a horny beast with a simple kiss I guess...”

Not his greatest one, but it had the merit of making Ringo chuckle.

“But in all seriousness, he was supportive,” he moved on with a humbled voice, cheeks heating up. “It was too much Ringo. He was so understanding and caring, wanting to ensure I was ok and safe… heck he literally hugged me to sleep! I was so ridiculous, and he didn’t leave… I-I…" he paused. He didn't know where he was going; he went for the feelings in his heart. As he said this, his eyes widened from where they hid. "I’ve never felt so loved, Rings.”

He peeked from his knees: Ringo was smiling warmly at him. Of course he wouldn’t think he had been ridiculous. Ringo knew after all. He understood.

“I’m glad for you John," his words were accomplished by his hand rubbing his arm again. "You deserve it. You deserve to be cared for.” 

… maybe he did. Who knew if he could really deserve this happiness?

John smiled, eyes crinkling up.

“Thank you Ringo.”

They stayed a couple more minutes like that. Before long, they would have to leave for their work. John’s day would go on, slowly. But his mindset remained a mystery. After speaking of his vulnerability, acknowledging out loud his childlike behavior, exposing his fears to himself and offering the voices in his head the occasion to mock him again, he didn’t know what to feel. Somehow subdued, yet disgusted but soft. Incomprehensible mix.

He hoped that at least meeting Stuart for his lunch break would clear his head a bit. He craved a sense of normalcy. He hoped to get it.

***

“You did what? Oh my god did you really panic for a kiss? This is the funniest shit I’ve heard today!”

Stuart cackled in front of him, sunglasses shining under the hot sun and hands slapping the table, momentarily jolting their coffees. He was laughing freely, mouth barely hidden by his light scarf. Mocking. Which resulted in John sulking as he sipped on his latte, grimly.

As promised, John had texted Stuart the day after his date, setting up a time for them to catch up. They had decided on a coffee shop next to Stuart’s art shop on Elliot Street, and not far from the Central Library. Naturally John arrived late, black jacket sticking to his skin as he had run to the meeting point, Elvis shirt’s fabric wrinkling in his hurry. Stuart had already been sitting for a while on the terrace, sipping on a peculiar exotic sort of coffee that John didn’t bother to register in his head, dressed perfectly in a long black overcoat, red doc martens, tight white jeans. They had chit-chatted a bit, as they hadn’t seen each other for awhile, discussing Stuart’s art shop and career, Astrid’s whereabouts, the horrible client in the library John had to face this morning — someone dared ask him for a play of “Oswald Wilde”, and John thought he was going to pummel them for mistaking Wilde’s name. To John’s utter abomination, Stuart dared think that Oswald suited him better than Oscar. So he had his revenge by claiming any paintings made past the seventies were just a joke, to Stuart’s offended glare. Normal conversation that everyone had. Till it drifted to the subject they were both really interested in: John’s date with Paul. The second one.

First he had told him how he had met the boy, what he looked like: he said he was the most gorgeous man he had seen and who had landed on his doorstep one day with a meal and a smile. From this point, he was infatuated. Stuart wasn’t even surprised by the rapidity of it, nor of John’s exaggerated declamations of Paul’s kindness and sweetness. He told him he was beginning to adhere to a vegetarian diet because of him: not because of a rude ass chef, which he took the pleasure of criticizing thoroughly. He recited the tales of the day Paul had landed on his doorstep soaked to the skin because of a hellish storm, and how he felt this was the moment Paul started to open up to him. How they had smiled and laughed. He moved on to a brief summary of bad flirting techniques that ashamed Stuart of being friends with John. Then, their first date. Unofficial, but the beginning of a new part of their story, yet to be completed. His first victory against his own self in a certain way. Now he was explaining the second date. It had gone so well: the diner had thrilled Paul; their conversation had been so warm, eyes focused on only each other; Paul complimenting his voice, for no other reasons that he despised John thinking he was wrong; hearing him play guitar, so at peace with himself, magical; and then THAT. That part. Oh, the kiss had been fantastic — he had been gushing about it right before, to Stuart’s impatience. But then. No. That hand? No. It had frozen him, shaken him, plunging his mind to a headspace where his instincts took over as they screamed “DON’T”. Leaving John in the unknown as to the reasons for his panic — the voices in his head, watching his life, obviously had an idea but they weren’t sharing it. Which was why, two days after, he still couldn’t explain it. Oh, he had a full list from which he could choose: commitment issues, fear of abandonment, self-disgust about being gay… He didn’t want to add any other, because he had a feeling the next one would be a simple “because I’m a pathetic useless man”. And he had dived into that last thought enough this morning thank you.

But all those reasons had not stopped Stuart from laughing out loud, attracting unwanted viewers’ attention to their table, reddening John’s face. What an ass.

“Stuart shut up,” he huffed out, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping back on his chair. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh yes it is!” Stuart cackled some more, as he was lifting his sunglasses up to rub a teary eye. “There was a beautiful man above you, one that you had been pinning on for a month, who was making out with you, and when it got serious, you kicked him away!” he summarized, making John’s face redder than before. Fuck, it was humiliating. It had been an idiotic decision talking about this to Stuart. He didn’t understand him at all. 

“How did the boy take it then?” he asked as his laughter died down, amusement glimmering in his eyes. He had biscuit crumbles around his lips from how much he had laughed with his mouth full: for once, Stuart was really unclassy.

“He took it… I don’t know. Not badly,” John answered with a shrug. “He said he didn’t mind and was ready to wait for me. He took care of me, afterwards… but I can’t tell if he was ok himself. I wasn’t focused on that.”

His throat was closing up; the vulnerability and self-hate that had quietly stirred in his stomach since the early morning were boiling. God, he felt like crap again. The voices were back. Spewing insults and mockeries at him, reminding him of what a failure he was: couldn’t even react normally to a kiss. He had hurt Paul with that push. What a-

“Of course you didn’t.”

Stuart was leaning back, sunglasses hiding his eyes, vaping. He had managed to extract John from his shaming voices and summon his anger back. God, what was up with today? Why was everyone accusing him, assaulting him? What had he done to deserve it? Couldn’t he get any credit for once? Ugh, why did he fucking wake up?

“And what's that supposed to mean Stu?” it was more threatening than interrogative.

Stuart chuckled, leaning forwards again, peering at John from above his sunglasses.

“Do you know why I’m laughing, John? Even though I know why you did that?” Stuart asked rhetorically, as he actually didn’t expect an answer or John didn’t want to give him one. “Because I want to get a rise out of you.”

At that, John’s closed off expression twitched. He acknowledged his words, without answering once again. He’d wait for more reasonable explanations. Stu wasn’t forgiven.

His friend vaped once more, still staring at him, with an expression that was taking on a grave turn: gone were the cackles and the embarrassment. He took off his sunglasses and it became all the more serious.

“I know Ringo probably reassured ya and all that, and, according to your description, your boyfriend is too polite or nice, to react badly. So, ultimately, it feels like it’s alright,” he was leaning forward so much his chest was squished on the table. “But, I’m not gonna do that. I want to shake you up, make you react. I don’t want you to fall into laziness, thinking if you wait long enough and stay too scared to move forward, at one point it’ll get better. We’ve been waiting for a year, John. This is a new chance offered to you.”

In the middle of this lecture, John began understanding where Stuart was going. His crossed arms slid to rest on the table, but he didn’t look at the other: he didn’t want to look up. A grounded child. Stuart was being right, and how shitty did it cause him to feel.

“Now, of course it’s valid to need time!” Stuart swiftly added, in case of him getting the wrong idea. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t make up to your boyfriend. That doesn’t mean you can lose all your confidence and pride and not act up. That doesn’t mean you can’t try to move forwards. Where is the Lennon I knew, who would have done anything to shine brighter than his flaws? Who would never declare himself defeated and who’d keep trying? Are you really going to let that stop you from moving on with that guy? So get a grip on yourself, John. This is a chance, and you have to take it. Don’t lose it.”

Stuart finished, pointing to him. When he was done, there was a heavy silence in the air. His mate seemed not to mind, for he leant back and vaped, putting on his sunglasses again. While John tried to process the lecture.

… Well, that had stung. But it was true: where was he? Where was the John who would have risen to the challenge? Who would have tried again after a fail? Who would- heck, even if he felt horrible, would have pushed everything aside to rise with flaming pride and cutting wit? He was letting himself be overwhelmed by his flaws. Again. As always. He needed to get himself back up. For Paul. Sure, he needed time, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t take any initiatives anymore. He could act. He could make decisions. Heck, he could impress Paul! All it took was a little bit of renewed confidence! That was it! Nothing more.

Too bad he was losing it. Words were doing more harm than good.

As Stuart’s words resonated in John’s mind, the artist was relaxing back in his seat, putting his electronic cigarette back in his pocket.

“Sorry for being harsh, but nobody would have said it if not me,” his tone was much more sympathetic, and John knew it hadn’t pleased him at all to say all that. 

“No no. You’re right, nobody would have told me. I get it.” 

They exchanged smiles: reassuring there were no bad feelings between each other, that it was understood, that this was the honesty they both expected out of each other. And continuing on this honesty, John added another worry, that he hadn’t really discussed with Ringo, and especially not with Paul.

“But there isn’t only that. There’s Mimi too.”

At that, Stuart’s brows furrowed, disappearing under his sunglasses. Passing a hand through his hair, he looked enervated with that fact; Stuart had never liked Mimi. Never understood why, after so many critics, John would still bother with her opinions; or her worst, her approval. She obviously never gave it.

But… she was John’s aunt. And he was her nephew. They had a deep affectation for one another that none which to admit.

“What has she done again now?” Stuart asked tiredly, hand massaging the bridge of his nose. “Always so unsupportive. I swear if she put you down again-”

“No no, she hasn’t, don’t worry,” he waved off the threat.“It’s just… things will get serious with Paul, maybe, and I don’t know what to do with her. She’ll have to know, at one point, and I don’t know what will happen. But I do know the worst consequences that could come out of it.”

And there were so many: getting kicked out of the flat, getting ripped of her financial aid, her asking for her money back, ruining his job as she was the one who had found it for him, disowning him; never speaking to him again, never looking at him again, never breathing the same air as him; simply acting as if John wasn’t her nephew. As if John had absolutely no family at all. Adding to his previous self-hate with how he had acted with Paul, and how he had disappointed Ringo, his emotions couldn't take it anymore.

Rationally, he knew it couldn’t get so bad: his aunt did love him — or, maybe not to that extent. However, his rationality had deserted the field. 

In his spiral of uncertainties about the future, where only negativity and gloom circled around in John’s head like fishes in a pond, fed by unnecessary thoughts that he somehow deserved them, he was removed by a strong hand holding his wrist. His eyes zoomed back to the present, and to the man who was calling his name. Had he been gone for long? He blinked. Slipping back to the pond sounded so tempting, but the hand was still present, hooked on his wrist for good. But he couldn’t bring himself to be angry: there was no anger, no frustration, no worry anymore. Just a blank mind, out of reality, lost to its disillusion.

John had failed: he had succumbed to the voices after all.

But he put on a fake open expression, as he looked at Stuart. His friend’s brow was creased in worry, but his voice didn’t falter as he spoke.

“John, if you ever need anything, a place to crash to, to vent and breathe, you know you’re always welcome in my shop. I’ll always be there to listen to your problems. The door is always open.”

He didn’t want to disappoint his friend by making him see his words weren’t enough to extract him from his mind and his failure. A phony smile in place; god it wasn’t his style to be so fake; or maybe, if he recalled the words of a hurtful lover.

“Thank you Stu.”

“No problem mate.”

They finished their coffees in silence. Stuart didn’t notice John’s absence, scrolling through his phone. The coffee had turned cold, and the biscuits weren’t even good. The sun was too hot, and the summer and its cursed heat waves were promptly on their way. There were too many people around him and they obscured him. So much noise, making his thoughts louder. Deafening.

John just wanted to go home.

***

He was on his bed, eating a bowl of cornflakes, as he was tucked under the cover in his floral dressing gown and large pajama pants, staring miserably at a dumb English TV game on his phone, trying to guess the answers before the candidates in his poor state. He had been miserable when he had gotten back to work, utterly depressed on his way home, and gazing emptily at his pasta plate during dinner, worrying Ringo multiple times. Completely deflated. A poor excuse of a man. Defeated by the doubts of his mind and the voices of insecurity and self-hate. Pathetic. And why? Because in the end it was too much: being scolded by Stuart at lunch, being not trusted this morning by Ringo, being accused by George yesterday, and being a disappointment to Paul two days ago. Piling up in his head, ruining his rare regained self-confidence. Till he couldn’t do it anymore, he couldn’t resist the voices: he gave in. That was why he was found on his bed with the covers rolled around him with red tired eyes and out of everything. Not thinking however: the doubts were just background white noise; enough to cloud his mind from any rational thoughts, but not enough to let him sleep and recover from it all. A blank place, devoid of anything. He wished he could forget the moment he had failed at everything; from gaining George’s respect, from keeping Ringo’s trust, from getting Stuart’s approval, from forgetting about his aunt, from showing Paul he lo-. Another incomplete thought in his useless brain. It was all so meaningless. But at least, that TV show had kept him from falling completely: he had guessed the right answer before the candidate once again.

This could have gone on for a long time: it was ten in the evening, and he had been watching these TV games for two hours. Frankly, he would have ended up collapsing on his phone at one point, sleeping, to wake up to his phone’s dead battery tomorrow morning, with a headache and a heartache. And tomorrow would have been the exact same cycle.

That was then that the doorbell rang. A shrill sound resonating through the entire flat, making him frown to his phone. Who the fuck could be ringing at ten? He didn’t want to get up and open the door. Not when he was so depressingly cozy. So he yelled for Ringo to get the door for him; his flatmate gladly did, John hearing his footsteps moving in the corridor. Putting his attention back to the game, he was mildly frustrated to find out he had missed the answer to the previous question: he would never know what was the name of the fennel’s family, which was critically significant information. He forgot about Ringo for a minute, not hearing him come back, but not worrying either. Tightening his hold on the blanket as he tried to remember who was the Norman fellow who invaded Britain in the past, desperately clasping for an answer. He was too long: William the Conqueror. Fucking French anyway. Ready for the next question, he heard Ringo’s footsteps coming back, but not returning to his room. Instead, he knocked on John’s door, telling him to get the door. When he shouted why, he was answered with retreating steps and Ringo’s door closing. That was curious: why would he get the door when Ringo was supposed to have done it a minute prior? Also annoying: that meant getting up. Perhaps would it be worth it. He sighed tiredly, sending a last look to his TV game streaming on his phone: it reinforced his resolve when he saw that bloody daft rich Bobby won the round, with his proud and satisfied smile as he was taunting John’s favorite, Leila the peaceful punk. No point in watching further then.

With another sigh, he managed to drag himself up to the front door, not bothering for another pair of clothes, walking on his too long pajama pants. Yawning, stopping in his tracks so as not to sway and fall, he was soon opening the front door. Rubbing his hurting eyes from too much screen without his glasses, he waited for them to focus again to discern the blurred shape better. When he did, he took a step back.

“Hey John! It’s been a while you know. How are you?”

It was Paul. His Paul. In his eternal Bowie sweater and his usual tight black jeans. Sweat was pearling on his forehead, from a probably extended service, and shadows were cast under his eyes, as if sleep had been hard to find. None of these things seemed to matter to Paul, for he was smiling broadly at John, taking all of his worries away in one big flash of his teeth, and reviving him from his languid drowsiness with sparkling hazel eyes. Gorgeous. As always, John was struck with the reality of knowing such a positive being. After the dreadful day he had, the depressing thoughts he carried on his back, the sense of defeat that had submersed him, he found his lips curving up, smiling back instantly, as if none of these things mattered now that Paul was here, and John was here with him.

“Paul! I’m fine, thanks!” he exclaimed, not processing his renewed energy properly before stammering.“B-but I didn’t expect you here. What’s up?”

At his inquiry, Paul blushed and scratched the back of his neck, looking at his feet. Both brushing it off and having difficulty speaking. John’s burning sun of doubts was finally being clouded, and he had a leveler head than before. Unassuming anything, simply waiting for Paul to speak. Not allowing questions or fears to flood his mind, but impatient to know. Because it was the first time Paul came to his flat, without being asked to or invited to. It was a decision of his own will. One that John knew nothing of its motives.

“I… errr well,” he shrugged, the itch in his neck not calming. “Nothing really important, but you know-”

“No I don’t.”

… Did he really attempt to make a joke here? After that cruel day? After his crumbling self-assurance? Did he really have the guts to just tease Paul for his habits of saying “you know” all the time? Paul was blinking, surprised as he was. But his shoulders were shaking with glee, the hand behind his neck quickly moving to conceal his giggling mouth. He whispered a funny “sorry”, and John’s grin finally appeared on his face, at the first success he had in these last two days.

He seriously didn’t comprehend the effect Paul had on him: since he had been here, he was smiling, joking, and he was feeling his confidence shyly climbing back up. All of this for no more motives than that Paul was on his doorstep, for reasons unknown.

Paul’s composure was back, and he tried to develop his explanation with a serious face.

“I wanted to tell you something. I didn’t want to text you; I wanted to tell you directly,” it was almost solemn, that beginning. But the softening of his features reassured John immediately. “Thank you for the date. I loved it. I can’t remember the last time I could relax from work so much.”

Disbelief was written on John’s face. He mustn’t have heard him right. But he wished it was true. A small voice in John managed to speak of his hesitancy, his doubt: because it couldn’t be a lovely date after what had happened.

“Even after…”

He trailed on, but not for long: Paul had grasped his hands in his, like he had done at that moment, two days ago. With resolution on his open features.

“Especially after that.”

In an instant, it was alright. There were no more pains, no more failures, no more self-hate: as he gazed in loving eyes, they were all overpowered and dissipated.

John believed that sometimes things could be easy. Not everything had to be difficult all the time. Therefore, he allowed this feeling to take over and accepted the ease in which he fell into, welcoming it with open arms.

Eventually, Paul’s hands retreated, clearing his throat awkwardly. So it seemed there was a second motive to his visit.

“Anyway, I was thinking; Monday we didn’t really focus on the movie you know, cause we were tired. So, I never really got my movie in the end... Sooo, I was wondering if we could watch another one then?” he asked with hopeful eyes and an embarrassed smile. John had no time to answer yes, because Paul was launching himself into a lengthy and overdone explanation filled with apologies and politeness too big to understand. He never stopped to take a breath. “Unless you wanted to sleep, I understand I should have asked beforehand, I don’t wanna bother, but you know I just wanted to spend time with you so I didn’t really think, which I should have done by the way, but I didn’t, so it’s ok if you don’t want you know cause it’s late an-”

A kiss abruptly shut the flow of words that were coming out of Paul’s mouth. John’s confidence had built so high that he had dared to interrupt him with a press of his lips and a hand on his cheek. It was all ok, because Paul was here, simply because he wished to be here, with John. This was the second time he felt so loved this week. All because of Paul.

When his lips moved away from Paul’s, blurred vision zooming back to see Paul’s blushing dumbstruck face, he smiled.

“Of course we can. Come in.”

Paul's face cracked into an awestruck grin.

The hand that touched Paul’s cheek slid to his wrist, and he was guiding him inside, closing the door behind him. They went straight to the couch, reaching for the duvet behind and spreading it over their legs as they sat, sides squished together. There was a bottle of water on the coffee table, an half-opened box of cookies — that Paul emptied greedily, excusing himself for he hadn't eaten due to the service — pillows behind their backs, and that was all they needed. They hadn’t had to think, doing it automatically, synchronized. John gave Paul the remote, hissing a playful threat as he did so.

“However, you choose a good movie! If it’s bad, you’re out.”

Paul’s arm circled his shoulders, bringing John closer to his side as he grinned.

“Sounds fine to me!”

It had been a strange day, John admitted. He had to face Ringo’s threats and distrust, hear Stuart berate him, and he had swallowed in disgust for the rest of the day. How could he have predicted thirty minutes ago, when he had stared glassily at his TV game, that he would be sitting here presently, watching The Guardians Of The Galaxy vol 2— Paul had struck him as both a superhero nerd and a countryside boy, so it didn’t surprise him. Plus he liked the movie — hugged to his deliverer’s side, hearing his laughter and comments to everything that was happening on the screen, and waiting for John to play along with each comment. He couldn’t have predicted how this night would go. He still barely believed it himself. But he wasn’t going to refuse any of it. He would welcome it with his heart and soul. The day had been worth it, for in a single night, he was healed. So he laid back, enjoyed the movie, enjoyed Paul’s presence, cozy, happy.

This time, it was Paul who fell asleep in the middle of his own comment, his words too exhausting after the service he had done. His head had slipped on John's shoulder this time, and he found his nose tucked into a mass of dark hair. John just stayed up, content, holding Paul's shoulder, not letting him go.

If this was how his nights were going to be now, he was happy to take it one day at a time.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 11_ **

(~ 7000 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voili voila for chapter 11 hehe. See? Nothing dramatic lol  
> Leave a comment if you liked it and if you can, they make my day and i'll be glad to see you again ^^  
> As I said, we will see each other again the 29th !  
> Till then, I hope you guys will be ok, that you'll take care of each other of yourself. Take time to breathe with a lil cup of tea, don't forget to relax, and be nice to yourself ♥  
> Have a great day/night!


	12. Another Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks have passed, where John and Paul grew closer. Through much laughter, but once, through much difficulty.
> 
> These are four brief moments from these past two weeks depicting that. Three full of laughter, one that wasn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everyone!  
> So this is a bit of a different chapter... it was supposed to be a short filler chapter with little snaps in time... but then idk one of them turned huge and angsty and as always whenever I write angst I become insecure lol. But the others are funny so I guess it's alright.  
> Tbh it wasn't supposed to go like that but it did so... I hope it's enjoyable? Tell me if you did ^^ 
> 
> Warning: a bit of crude language about sex thanks to Georgie's bluntness

Two weeks had passed since that night. It was the beginning of June — the tenth if you wanted to be precise. Not much had happened till then: George's warning had been ignored, John's depression hadn't won, Ringo went to help out four times at the restaurant, and Paul was at John's flat every other night after his work. Paul had never heard about George's visit. Ringo never told him he knew. John never let go of his fears. George was happy to work with Richie. Yet life had gone on, deliciously slow yet tantalisingly fast. George and Ringo were closer. As there were no disturbances between the group, the relationship between Paul and John grew. Stronger and warmer.

These are four brief moments depicting that fact, that happened during the last two weeks:

*** 

George had abruptly stopped washing the utensils that had been used for this lunch service. Bewildered as he had been halted in his knives cleaning over the sink. Paul had been once again ranting about how "adorable" and "gentle" and "shy" John had been; how lovely he was with him; how wonderfully peaceful it had felt to be with him and how he had been so calm he had dozed on John's shoulder and blablabla love love love annoying long talk once again. He had feigned interest in the first sentences; he had grown too tired of the subject to even put on an act during the sixth. Plus Paul was so deep in his story he didn't notice his friend's disinterest: arms resting on a kitchen worktop next to George, he was gazing at the ceiling, sighing dreamily and- god he was so disgustingly infatuated George wanted to gag. He still didn't understand why Paul loved John. After all, what had the guy done for Paul? What actions had he accomplished for Paul? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Zero action. Just being handsome and soft with the lad, that was all.

That was not enough.

George preferred actions to words: acts spoke more than just a couple of unfulfilled promises; if you declared him you'd never leave and then a second after you were going away, you were no longer allowed to be near him. Speaking for nothing was pointless: actions for nothing were meaningful. For no motives, for no reasons, other than being generous, helping, loving.

Which was why George had weird but nice feelings for Richie. An angel.

What actions had John undertaken? None.

But then Paul had said that sentence. One that was bewildering because it came from Paul's mouth: he had told him of John's panicked reaction when he had made a move on him, but his reaction was absurd. He had said:

"You know, it's ok actually. I don't mind it. That we stopped what we were gonna do. Because afterwards we held hands for a long time. I think it's the most intimate thing ever you know; especially with John."

That was why George was slowly turning around, narrowed eyes under suspicious brows.

"You? Holding hands? And thinking it's the most intimate thing?"

Paul was nodding with his mind in the clouds, fond smile so horribly dreamy. George couldn’t believe that.

"... God you’re serious. That's the ‘most intimate thing’ you guys did and you're actually blissful about that." 

You had to understand why George was so dumbstruck with the fact. It was because he was talking about Paul. The horniest boy of all Liverpool. Paul, who would take on multiple one-night stands in a week if his anxiety took too much of a toll on him; because, George quoted:  _ "I don't have time for a relationship, but I'll always make time for a fuck." _ Really classy. Pau who had a billion kinks. Paul, who would cause women and men to cum mindlessly under his ministrations, thrilled on the control he had; he got off on it. George knew, because he had the ‘pleasure’ of experiencing it once after a drunken night when they were celebrating Paul's new job…. George cringed, regretting even remembering it: the sex had been absolutely wonderful, and he had cummed his brain out repeatedly under Paul; his friend had ruined everything in one sentence afterwards:  _ "so… did your big brother make you feel good George?" _

He had kicked him out and refused to be called little brother for a month. Good god it still made him gag; you didn't say that after sex. Paul, aka the kinkiest lad of Liverpool. That same Paul, wanted to make George believe he was utterly ecstatic about holding John's hands in his. About giving up on what would have been another of his ‘good fucks’. Satisfied and content. Better than a fuck.

That was extremely hard to buy.

The waiter huffed in frustration at George's disbelief, crossing his arms and arching his back.

"What, it's true George!" Paul snapped in annoyance. "He's got really beautiful hands, and they're all soft and-"

“Oh please don’t make me believe you wouldn’t have preferred these hands around your d-”

"Paul? You there?"

They had been interrupted. George was actually glad about it, since he was about to make a rather crude statement; god damn bluntness of his! At least, he had escaped the sordid subject of the perfection of John's hands. There was a voice calling out for Paul in the entrance, and Paul had abruptly shut up. When George caught on to the fact that it was John's voice, Paul had already ran out and greeted him with delighted surprise, while he followed secretly with pleasant spite. He stopped at the door, looking at the scene; he had never observed the two together and judged it was high time he did, for then he would know the truth of John's feelings. They were facing each other, each on one side of the counter. Paul was positively beaming, as if coming back to life; John's lips curved up in reaction, almond-shaped eyes gleaming. Their hands rested on the counter, but did not touch.

"John! What are you doing here?" he asked more for politeness than anything else; his high pitched voice betrayed his joy. George snorted from where he hid. The answer would be more significant. He was curious as to what John had to say: would it be the selfish reasons George apprehended?

At that point John's hands took Paul's, squeezing them softly as he rose them up. Paul's grin visibly relaxed, excitement melting in tenderness, while John was the exact replica of disgusting adoration. Ugh…

"I wanted to check on you, if you were ok?" He asked tentatively, and both George and Paul were surprised at the reply. Had George missed something recently or- 

Paul awkwardly laughed, and George was certain he was already collecting his professional mask in case of any intrusive questions.

"Of course I'm fine! Why would you ask?"

Yes typical Paul: why would people fucking worry, huh? George despised that even more than his boss. Fleetingly, he wished for John to be as frustrated as him about that: Paul, not letting people in.

The man did actually snort in disbelief.

"Well because I worry about my boyfriend of course!” John blurted, looking disconcerted to have to explain that. The genuineness behind his round glasses was unveiled, visible to the whole world, blinding George with its truth. It was an eager voice, that hadn’t repressed feelings, not for some fake pride or masculinity; free of these trappings unhealthy socialized behaviors. The hands were holding Paul’s so softly, almost cradling them to his chest. It was such a soft scene: Paul’s eyes were wide, and his cheeks were red, with the tiniest smile on his face; John was looking at him with fondness.

At this moment, George felt he was intruding on too much of an intimate scene, and stepped back. This realization brought him new knowledge that had halted him in his tracks: John really did care for Paul. There were no faking, no selfish reasons, no hurt; only care. John was there for Paul; as much as Paul was there for him.

With this George felt his lips unconsciously twitch until they curved up: he had misjudged him.

Said man was playfully tapping his fingers on Paul’s, mischief in his eyes. “After all, you did fall asleep quite fast yesterday during the movie, Mr. ‘last time we didn’t watch the end of the movie because of John’.”

Paul snorted, slapping his hands away teasingly, as he feigned offense.

“What absolutely not! I never did!”

“Oh really?” John leant forward, smirking menacingly. “Who was drooling on me shoulder then?”

“Shut up! Don’t tell it so loudly!”

They were both laughing, and their hands were back together, squeezed together, holding happily and lovingly. Unashamed, unconcealed, out to everyone, out to themselves. Clear, free, young and yet, almost domestic, as if they were already so used to each other. Connected. Laughter echoing in the room, taking them away. Until it calmed down, and Paul was slowly lifting John’s hands up to his lips. As they drew sufficiently near, he pressed his lips on them, with a loving gaze. Intimate. That was when George decided he was trespassing too much. With a last smirk to the scene, to the two people who were thoroughly engrossed in each other, he walked back to the kitchen, returning to his pans, sauces, and desserts. He had seen enough. He had seen their emotions. He had the privilege of witnessing what he had assumed to be a farce earlier: them holding hands, as the most intimate gesture they had. Paul had been right; it was.

John really was more special than George had presumed.

***

When Ringo came home on this Sunday afternoon, he didn’t expect to hear giggles and whinings coming from their kitchen.

He dropped his bag by the entrance, took off his jacket, and stepped inside the room to reach the commotion. He knew John had stayed home until now, while Ringo had gone to visit his mother. Therefore, he guessed John had been the one whining. As he arrived in the kitchen, he saw who was uncontrollably giggling next to him: Paul.

They were both hunched over a baking tray resting on the kitchen worktop; a bowl of dough with chocolate chunks was disposed next to them, as they were holding spoons with the same dough. These spoons were dangerously shaking as Paul was laughing and John was nudging him away, and for a second Ringo was scared of the mess to be found on the floor soon; that was before he glimpsed down to see there was already a mess. Dough and chocolate chips were coating the floor; the sink was filled with a burnt baking sheet and a darkly coloured dough; a knife covered in greasy margarine was laying on the table. And while Paul seemed to have survived this mess — except for the chocolate stain on his cheek — John did not: his ponytail was in disarray, and streaks of hair were sticking up above his forehead; his glasses were stained with grease and the sleeves of his gown were floured. He was still weakly pushing Paul away, as the deliverer laughed.

"John, you did it wrong again that's not how you shape a cookie!"

"That's because you're stressing me out finding excuses to eat 'em! Stop stealing them!" he replied as his hand was pressed to Paul's chest, but not acting like he was trying to push him away this time. He just let his hand there, as Paul walked closer and closer, giggling still.

Suddenly what he was watching became tenseful: the arm length distance shrank to nothing, and if John's hand hadn't moved, their chests would be touching. On his tiptoe, Paul was towering over John. His right hand was holding John's. His laughter had died down, and he was gazing adoringly at John, who gradually flushed under his eyes. What was going on? Ringo didn't understand, but he was stunned in front of the scene. There was nothing bothering them, nothing around them. He saw how their gazes had drifted down to each other's lips; how Paul's head was lowering to meet John's rising one; how they were going to kiss; how Ringo realized how highly inappropriate he felt about remaining here and witnessing this. But it was too late to run. Their lips were so close. It was happening...

Paul's left hand flew from his side to the tray and then his mouth: in it was a cookie yet to be baked. And it was eaten just as fast.

"Paul no!" John shouted. "Put that cookie down! Now!" Paul was already running away and avoiding John's hit with the wooden spoon, snickering. Children.

As they were chasing each other around the kitchen, they eventually discovered Ringo was standing there, with a chastising stance, but an amused smile on his face. They both stopped abruptly, silent, except for a quiet "hi Rings!" from John.

Ringo hummed, scratching his stubble.

"And what's happening there, hum?"

"It's not my fault before you say anything!" John rushed out, which was so typically John it didn't surprise Ringo in the slightest. Paul stepped up to explain.

“I wanted to pay a surprise visit to John before tonight’s service, but…” he was sending John a quiet amused look. “The whole kitchen was burning up so-”

“WHAT?” “THAT’S NOT TRUE!” Both Ringo and John yelled at the same time, while Paul giggled once again. Ringo was glaring at John, while the man was frantically waving his hands in front of him, pleading his innocence.

“Ringo I promise I didn’t do anything!”

But Ringo was still looking at him suspiciously: John was completely capable of doing that. Before he could insist, Paul saved him by explaining the rest.

“He was trying to make me cookies, since I love sweet food.”

Ringo blinked, seeing John’s case under a new light. Yet, he did not understand.

“John,” his flatmate dared to look up. “You can’t cook desserts.”

“I know,” John grumbled, looking back to the floor. He had drifted to Paul, and they were so close their sides were squished. The gentle smile Paul was sending to John was so heartwarming. But his flatmate was still grumpy. “I forgot them in the oven the first time and they were burned. Then the second time I forgot the fucking flour. And then Paul found me trying a third time. And it would be finished if he didn’t keep on eating them before they’re even done!” he finished sending a fake accusation to his boyfriend, who feigned a gasp.

They stared at each other, somewhat angrily, before their faces crumbled and they were laughing again, foreheads touching. Ignoring Ringo, as they lost themselves to their glee.

As Ringo looked at them, he stopped to consider what he was witnessing so far. Two men engrossed with each other. Two guys with a rather damaged background. Two lads that found each other by sheer luck and that was probably the best thing that had happened to them. A librarian and his deliverer. One that had brought him joy and a second chance at love. That understood him and stayed. A waiter and his client. One that had given him time and taught him love could be slow. That cherished him and demonstrated it. What was there to add? What was there to hide? Something was bound to happen, but they had to work to prevent it: how could they do so by denying two men the love they both deserved? Even if Ringo was scared once or twice that he may have to pick up the pieces of a heartbroken John again, how could he not trust them? And yet… doubts were always there, weren’t they? A smile and a laugh could conceal so much… Paul’s whole story had been veiled so meticulously, to the point that any stranger would never imagine that this lad had lived at the bottom of life. Perhaps were there other lies? Other truths left to unwrap? Did he know Paul, even after what he heard? Did John know Paul, when he didn’t have a slight clue about Ringo’s own knowledge? How could he be trusted?

How could you not, when you watched him softly graze John’s cheek and look at John with so much fondness in his eyes?

“I’ll have to go now I think,” the delivery lad said ultimately. It was Sunday, his delivery shift would promptly begin. As he let go of John’s cheek, he sent Ringo one of his charming smiles, which made it impossible to refuse him anything. “Oh by the way Ringo, George wanted me to ask ya if you could help him tonight?”

The polite smile hadn’t been needed: Ringo would never refuse George.

“Oh- of course! I’ll come with you then,” he hastily answered, as Paul nodded his thanks.

“Perfect!” he turned around to put on his famous Bowie sweater; its black contrasted with the pure white of John’s tank top. Catching the attention of said man by pulling on the sleeve of his floral dressing gown, he added: “You think you can not burn the cookies until I’m back?”

John snorted, swiping his hand away in pretended offense. But it was only teasing. Paul was next to Ringo, ready to go.

As surprising as it was, Ringo didn’t mind witnessing what John would call in the past “disgusting blatant physical display of affection that made him puke”: because each one reassured him that John was in good hands.

They walked out of the flat, in the street, under the lowering sun and the darkening sky. The trip wouldn’t be long, but Ringo took on the occasion to open the conversation. His goal was to have the final sign of reassurance about Paul’s dedication to this relationship, to John. But Ringo was no conversationalist: neither diplomatic nor charming; he was too timid and reserved for those things that required to master the art of speech. Ringo didn’t. He preferred actions. 

“So… you and John are good then?”

Paul’s focused eyes crinkled up instantly, face beaming.

“We’re more than good! It’s perfect!” he realized his haste to admit the feelings of his heart and briefly shut his mouth.“I-I mean, well… it’s going pretty well yeah.”

Ringo nodded. That was already an encouraging start. Now he could finish.

“I’m glad. John needs it,” he paused, taking a step or two. Then stopped. Paul, who noticed it, stopped too, curious. He didn’t ask. Nor did he press Ringo to end his task. After some fruitless attempts and fingers fidgeting together, he exhaled and moved on. “That’s why I wanted to ask: can you promise me something, Paul?”

Paul didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.

“Of course, tell me.”

He stared up, resolute to get his point across.

“Promise me that you’ll never do him no harm. That you won’t hurt him. He’s been through so much and-”

“You don’t have to explain Ringo,’ Paul interrupted, fingers on Ringo’s shaking ones. He leaned forward, serious. Proving to Ringo he knew this was significant to him, and respected it. That therefore, he would take it seriously. “I promise. I’ll never do him no harm.”

A burden that had been carried on his shoulders since the moment John had met Paul had been lifted off with strong words and a meaningful promise. With a reassuring affirmation and a grave face. With honesty in its purest form. He didn’t refrain an immense sigh of relief from escaping his lips, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. It was ok now: it was certified so.

“Thanks.”

They drifted to lighter subjects as they moved on. Drifted to an easy flow of words, as if now that the pact was sealed, they had nothing to fear. When they reached the restaurant, Ringo’s heart was still light. When he was greeted by George warmly, a hand falling to the small of his back, guiding him to the kitchen, he had nothing clawing at his mind. When the service began, and he got to work with George, side by side, he enjoyed every minute without a grey cloud in his sky. It was alright.

Nothing bad could happen.

***

It was a Friday night, and Paul’s delivery service was finally over. Standing in front of John’s doorstep, as he had gotten so used to do whenever he was done with his work for the last couple of days, he knocked. But, compared to the other nights, when he had come in with a smile and hoping to spend a wonderful time, he was irritated and bothered. Not because of John, he could never be vexed about him. Why was he annoyed, one might wonder: something happened during the service, nothing dreadful, and it wasn’t the source of his displeasure; his reaction to it was. He hadn’t been able to grasp back on his famous professional mask and his practical mind was berating him for his lack of self-control. There were no reasons for him to be incapable of returning to his professionalism and politeness. Really. Except perhaps that he was tired, that his father had been sick yesterday, that he had no news from Mike for the last week, that George had mocked him for his accident of tonight and his boss had scolded him for his insufficient attention and endangering carelessness. He winced, pressing a hand to his poorly bandaged forehead: it still hurt like hell.

But he couldn't fathom it all for too long; the pain had to be ignored. Now was the time to focus on his boyfriend. He treasured these moments they had together. Perhaps tonight he would be less receptive to his jokes, or wincing once in a while, but he would be with him, and that was what mattered the most to Paul: not the pain, not the exhaustion, not the anxiety. John did. Because he cared for him. So much.

He just hoped, foolishly or optimistically, that John would ignore the bandage around his forehead.

When the door opened, and he saw his boyfriend, tucked in fuzzy socks, beige comfy straight pants, a fitting tank top, calm, serene, Paul smiled instantly: how he loved when John looked so appeased. He was delighted to be here.

John observed him through his round glasses, and stared straight at his forehead. Horror painted his features, eyebrows high, pupils small, hand gripping the doorknob. So much for ignoring it. Internally, Paul was gritting his teeth. He was less delighted to be here.

Eventually, someone had to speak: Paul couldn’t remain on the doorstep for an eternity.

So John did.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“Hello to you too,” was the only answer he wished to give to John’s disturbed yell. He passed him roughly, just wanting to avoid that conversation. Yet he was restrained: John had grasped his arm and made him turn around. 

“Hey, where do you think you’re going there?” John demanded, already angered. Paul knew his boyfriend had a short-temper that he hardly controlled; it didn’t mean he would act accordingly.

“Inside.”

That was all he was willing to offer. He didn’t want to dwell on that: he was ashamed enough. But John was having none of that.

“With a bloodied bandage on your forehead?” he deadpanned. But his fury quieted down. Paul didn’t comprehend why, until he felt him walk closer and graze his forehead. He was silent, narrowing his eyes. Too close. “It’s still bleeding.”

At that it was Paul’s turn to crease his brows, until he remembered how hastily he had been bandaged by Jimmy, under George’s mischievous eyes and Bailey's scowl. They had had a service to finish; there were no minutes to waste on a foolish careless injury. Reprimanding himself once again for not having considered arranging his bandage before going, he involuntarily cursed. John was still touching his covered cut. Harshly, he withdrew his forehead and stepped back.

“Just give me a minute.”

Escaping from his grasp, he strode to the bathroom, wishing to fix this somehow, not caring if John followed. He didn’t want to dwell on that; he hated to be looked on with worry, pity, as if he had failed from taking care of something, of anything, of everything: of himself. As if for a second he had no control. Talking about it would only worsen his own resentment toward himself.

When he arrived, he stared at himself in the mirror: the bandage around his forehead, once white, was completely soaked in red blood. The rest of his face was fine, except from a purple bruise coloring his chin. His body was aching and his legs hurt as if they were stretched too much, but he could ignore it easily. Taking off his Bowie sweater, a plain dark t-shirt underneath, he rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in his limbs. In vain. The shadows underneath his eyes were deep.

As he was trying to take off the bandage that had stuck to his wound, he was jerked from his task when he heard John’s voice behind him.

“What are you doing now?”

It wasn’t accusatory or scolding: just inquiring. So Paul didn’t answer aggressively: after all, it wasn’t John’s fault, but his own. He sighed.

“I’m just cleaning it. It’ll be better in a few, don’t worry,” he reassured, sending him a warm glance, before whirling back to the mirror and his task. God, he really looked like shit with that blood and his shadowed eyes. He desperately needed some sleep. So he'd fucking not be clumsy anymore.

“Did someone do this to you?”

“No,” he answered with no hesitation. If only it had been someone who would have. He would seem less stupid.

“What happened?”

It wasn’t a timid voice that asked this. It was neutral and firm. Still inquiring. Sensing Paul was moved by a force that had rarely appeared in John’s presence, and being cautious when dealing with it; Paul’s anger.

However, he did not answer. He didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t like to look like a fool — but who ever did?

His hands approached the bandage slowly. With careful fingers and focused eyes, teeth clenched around his tongue, he slowly tried to peel it off. But the bandage was stuck to his forehead. As soon as he began to pull, it stung and burnt. It was so instantaneous that his eyes snapped shut, and he audibly winced. Fuck that did hurt a hell of a lot. God damn it, what an idiot. He tried again, but the burnt was too strong and he let go of the bandage. Cursing at himself for his cowardice, he splashed some water on his eyes and face, hoping the water would help the bandage slip. During all of this, John stood in the doorway, watching. For how long would he stay there, immobile, inactive? Paul feared John would want to converse again.

His fears well founded, for soon, John was behind him. He held his shoulder to turn him around and stated with a bit of frustration in his voice:

“Look, just let me take care of it.”

With a roll of his shoulder, Paul shoved the hand away.

“I can take care of this myself,” he bluntly informed him, hoping to be left alone. But John was having none of it, to Paul’s dismay. He gripped his shoulder again and made him whirl around a second time.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’ll be faster this way,”

“I said I could do it, John.”

His own voice was dangerously getting harsher. John’s patience was growing thin, as barely concealed anger surfaced on his features. Paul made another attempt to turn, but John’s hand landed on his chest, preventing him from finishing his movement. Paul hated when he was pushed around like that.

“You’re hurt, Paul. Just let me do it. I don’t know what’s wrong with tha-”

“I said!” Paul inhaled as he growled. His head throbbed. God he wanted to just take care of this, just like he did with everything else, and rest. “I can take care of this myself, John!”

“But-”

“Leave me alone!”

“Why won’t you let me take care of you!” John hissed, his voice almost shouting.

At that Paul snapped. Was he too tired, too stressed, and the shout had been too much, the reasons were unknown. But he did, shutting John up.

“I only smashed into a pole!”

Silence. Paul’s fists trembled at his side. Admitting the humiliating truth of what happened. Cheeks reddening as he did. Promptly, John would realize it was nothing and leave him be.

But his boyfriend was blinking, confused, lost.

“What?”

Paul sighed. Guess he would have to explain then. He glared at the floor, feeling the wet bandage on his forehead remaining immobile. Frustrated. So god damn frustrated.

“There was a drunk guy who ran a red light and he was driving in fucking zigzag, and at this moment I was cycling on his way. I noticed him too late and his car was rushing toward me, fast, so I panicked and took a sharp turn to avoid him. But there was a fucking pole and I smashed into it. Because I wasn’t careful enough. That’s all,” he spat, done with his explanations stressed by sharp hand movements. He was so embarrassed of what he had done; if he hadn’t been daydreaming about John again, he would have noticed the weird driver earlier, and therefore stopped and stepped on the side. He wouldn’t have lost control. His boss was right: he didn’t pay attention; he was careless. “You can laugh if you want. I know it’s stupid.”

He waited. He waited as he looked at the cold white floor and not at John. He waited to be scolded or laughed at. Maybe once that happened, would John leave him alone.

But his boyfriend was unresponsive. He didn’t reply. How did he react to the ashaming story, Paul didn’t know, he didn’t want to look up. Sulking in his embarrassment seemed so much more interesting than seeing how John felt about this. The floor was so pretty after all. All white, all pure, all untainted, unflawed. All free.

“My mom died smashed by a car.”

Paul froze. She… What? John had never talked about her. His eyes widened. Suddenly, the floor wasn’t attractive enough to steal his attention. He slowly looked up: John was staring at him, resolute to talk. There were no traces of pain: just a longing sadness behind an impassive mask.

“It’s the last thing I heard about her. She had left me, but once a year she’d visit or something. And one day I got a call telling me a drunk guy had smashed into her with his car,” John stopped, his eyes trailing on a spot behind Paul. As if his mind was taking him back to a long and harsh day where he heard of his mother’s death, and had cried himself to sleep for many nights. Or perhaps, as the haunted look in his eyes let go for a feeble spark of nostalgia, his mind rewinded to distant impressions, smells, words, of his mother that he hadn’t known long enough to genuinely love. Wherever did he go in his head, it was gone, as his eyes moved back to Paul, pinning him down with their cold graveness. “So no, I don’t think it’s stupid, Paul.”

Paul didn’t know what to answer to that. He felt too many things. Understanding, shame, grief, languidness settling in his limbs, he was overcome with a strong gripping exhaustion over everything. John advanced closer to him. Paul let him do so. He took a towel and extended his hand toward Paul. Paul, whose mind had gone empty and slow after this revelation. It could have happened to him.

John’s eyes were piercing his soul. He was so close. But Paul had gone so detached.

“Now, will you let me take care of you?”

John had said this in a whisper. Paul nodded, not finding the words. He had no fight in him anymore.

Walking to the kitchen, no questioning. Told to sit down on a chair, while John wetted the towel. Paul did so, not speaking. He slumped down, feeling his aching limbs sigh in relief. He didn’t voice it. Looking down at the floor once again. He was withdrawing. There were too many reasons as to why, and there were none: John was worried, John’s mom died, his own mom died, he could have joined her, them, how would have John reacted then, everything that could have happened because of a moment of inattention, of a slip in his control. Because he had been tired and thinking of John. A tiny moment. And yet, John hadn’t blamed him. No, John didn’t want him to redeem his mistake by letting Paul fix himself; John wanted to take care of it. Of the wound. Perhaps, because he hadn’t been able to with his dying mother. But not only that. John wanted to take care of him.

And Paul, usually so keen on taking care of everything, had done it for so long he didn’t remember the contrary was possible, let him do so.

He missed his mom.

When John’s feet were in his line of sight, he slowly gazed above, emptily: his lover was gazing back intensely. Their legs were pressed together. Cautious, John’s fingers approached his forehead. He was hesitant to touch the bandage; he had seen how Paul had winced. A nod, conveying that it was ok. When John’s fingers fell on the fabric, they worked on removing it, delicately, carefully. Never did he tremble, as he rolled the bottom of the bandage to raise it with his thumbs. Paul always stared. Once or twice, he held back a flinch, afraid of causing any more harm. Yet, he hadn’t been able to suppress a wince, teeth clenching, when John started to pull the rolled bandage up. Hearing some hushed reassuring words, he dared to open his eyes again: there John was, with him, but inspecting the gash on his forehead. The cold air hitting it stung him more, and he gripped the edge of the chair. John caught the movement, concentration switching. He warned him that he needed to disinfect it. It was a large cut, surrounded with bruises, purple and blue; no amount of hair could hide it. He did not protest. As he felt the spray land on his forehead, he was wincing again; one of John’s hands was on his head, scratching the streaks of hair he held away, not letting him go. Therefore, he stayed. When the pain was subdued, he looked back to John. They were locked in another eye-contact. The man was closer now, his chest tickling his chin. The hand that was on his hair glid to his cheek. The other held the towel and was approaching his forehead. John’s eyes were deep and entrancing; profound concern shining through chestnut color, and focus carved above with furrowed brows. They stopped him from falling. They were always here. The towel grazed his forehead: it was warm. Paul closed his eyes. It was ok. He could let John take care of it.

After a moment where the warmth of the towel spread to his head, he woke slightly from his silence/ He had the need to say something. He was sensing a new bandage being rolled around his forehead; John, cautious of not taking any hair in it. When his partner was almost finished, cutting what wasn’t necessary of the fabric, Paul glanced at him; he was calm.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.

At this, John’s eyebrows raised, but he remained absorbed in his task, knowing it would soon be done.

“What for?”

“For yelling. But especially for not having been careful enough.” 

This time John did stop. Halting every movement, he lowered his head to be at eye-level with Paul, still on his chair. He was inspecting his eyes now and not the carefully covered wound. Paul didn’t discern what he sought; he had been honest; he always made mistakes, didn’t he? No matter how much he tried to be perfect, he couldn’t avoid them. This night’s accident had been the proof.

When John seemed to come empty of his research, he took a step back, incredulous.

“You’re not really thinking that this is your fault, right?”

Paul’s mind seemed to stop, rewinding, looking for the moment where he had been wrong in his previous sentence. He didn’t find it. Confused, he stared at John.

“But it is my fault,” in front of John disbelief, he elaborated, with evidence dripping from his small voice. “I wasn’t careful enough, and… I should have been.”

He had trailed off afterwards. Because he didn’t know what to say, what to explain, what more could he do? Nothing. This was the truth. As depressed as it made him, he had to be honest with himself on that.

There was a pause. He grew worried. Shakily, he added a barely audible “no?”, not sure of it anymore. 

John kept staring at him as if he had stated something wrong. He didn’t understand. It made him feel… he didn’t know. He had no words to put on his emotions anymore, there were so many gloomy ones around his head and they kept spinning around and around and he didn’t know which one was in charge and — why wasn’t his professional mask back already? Why couldn’t he bring himself up? Why were John’s eyes defeating him? In his head were a panic, an anxiety attack and a mess in a usually organized place. He had just smashed into a pole. That was all.

“Are you ok, Paul?” John had then asked, a voice grasping him away from the frenzy. These chestnut eyes, so concerned: Paul couldn’t lie to them.

“I-I don’t know.”

John nodded.

The next minutes were a bit of a blur. John had taken him to his room and gave him another pair of comfy clothes to wear. The next second, he found himself on the couch, in fuzzy socks just like John’s, a pair of pyjamas pants, and John's floral dressing gown around his frame; he was half laying down on John, sitting between his legs and back leaning on his chest; in his hands, a cup of hot chocolate; John’s chin was on his head, resting there as he was flicking through the channels on the television; one of John’s hand was around his. He had lost track of the events that had led to this, and somehow he found himself blinking repeatedly when he realized his position. The vulnerability suddenly ashamed him. About to straighten up, man up, mask up, ready to bolt; John circled his chest; he had found a channel. He was enclosed in John’s arms. His mind short-circuited from his previous incomplete thoughts, to center on this fact: every night, when he came to John’s flat, he was the one to hug John to his side. Not the contrary. Never the contrary. This was different. This was… rather nice.

It took him a moment to get used to the feeling. John’s arms were warm. 

He didn’t want to leave anymore. He let himself relax in John’s hold. Everything had been too complicated for a simple ridiculous accident. But this: this was the only thing he found easy to understand. 

So he let go. Of everything. His mind was turned off. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, he let his eyes close for a second, feeling the warmth in his hands and pressed to his back. John held him tighter; he smiled.

After all, he could forgive himself for one night, couldn't he?

***

Another Friday evening and John was positively beaming. Because he was behaving like a fool. A dancing fool, to be correct. And he loved it.

To be even more precise, they were both dancing fools. He and Paul were dancing around in the living-room, with pretty bad disco moves mixed with rock’n’roll swings and clumsy waist holding.

It all began when they had been waiting for their food to be delivered, but never came. John had received a call from the restaurant he had ordered to — a Greek one — saying they couldn’t deliver it, because... he didn’t recall what was their dumb excuse. He had slapped the phone on the couch after hanging up, disappointed and infuriated that they were now left with nothing but a bunch of pasta leftovers from the dinner of yesterday. Groaning into one of the cushions, he had focused on his misfortune solely. Paul, next to him, had tried in vain to reassure him that it wasn’t a problem, and pasta was fine. However, John didn’t agree to that. He remained with his head in the cushion, complaining again and again, threatening to ruin the restaurant’s review section, because they refused John Lennon! He knew it must have been tiring to Paul but he couldn’t care less at the moment: he was mad and had wanted the world to hear about it.

That was until he heard the notes of disco music reaching his ears. He could recognize it anywhere: these were the first notes of Super Trooper from Abba, on Ringo’s famously dreaded disco compilation vinyl. God whenever he would put it on, Ringo would turn the volume to the maximum, and dance stupidly all around the house as he tried to clean up at the same time. It was embarrassing to witness. Those notes were bad memories. Which was why he sprang up instantly, repelled. Until he saw Paul, dancing. Or more like, attempting to dance. It was just a series of weird moves rolling to the next ones, with Paul flashing a silly grin and having absolutely no shame. And… Why? John didn’t really comprehend what he was doing.

“Why are you acting like a fool?

A bit harsh? Maybe. But he was hungry, so it was fair.

Paul waved his finger in a no-no gesture, with a tilt of his head as he didn’t lose his tapping.

“Ah no! A dancin' fool.”

John snorted at that.

“Oh excuse me. Then why are you acting like a dancin’ fool then?”

“Because,” he said as he danced to him — he seriously did that cliché move of turning his fist together in small circles. When he was in front of him, he pointed to his nose, finger pushing on it. “Compared to someone here, I was tired of sitting down and moping. So I thought I’d distract him a bit.”

As he said that, he tapped his nose and left with a roll of his hips — which wasn't unpleasant to watch — moving back near the record player. But his feet were clumsy, and he almost fell twice. He was absolutely terrible at this. John was chuckling, contemplating the spectacle. He didn’t know how Paul got this idea, but it was clearly not one of his best; he had no idea of what he was doing. Still, in the middle of it, Paul shouted:

“Is it working?”

He was sweating, and it was evident from his reddening cheeks that he was getting a bit ashamed from his utter lack of class and knowledge. John laughed. Alright, he might as well save him from the mess he had put himself in. He got up with his hand dramatically covering his eyes.

“It is but it is so dreadful to watch! Which is why I should show you what’s a real dancin’ fool like!”

And that was how he had found himself dancing stupidly and messily with Paul, on Ringo’s disco compilation, that he abhorred. Thank God his flatmate wasn’t here right now, because he was certain he would have been teased about it for the rest of his life.

But it had distracted him. It had worked. Soon, he forgot their lost Greek dinner and the disrespectful restaurant: he had his hands in Paul’s, and they were swinging their hips as high as they could before going to the other side, arms going from the floor to the sky every time. They were giggling and singing horribly, stomping on each others' feet, but it refreshed him. He was alive. When the last song of the side came on, John warned Paul, and they gave it their all. It was  _ Stayin’ Alive _ after all: it needed a grand final. Such a grand one, that John sent Paul spiralling to the couch and stumbling on it, legs above his chest before they fell with a thud; his arse on the floor, his head slammed on the couch. He blinked, lost for a second. With a small oops, John rushed to his side, but was quickly reassured when he heard his boyfriend’s giggles erupt from behind his hands. Contagious, John sat next to him and laughed in sync. It felt good. He felt good.

He had been feeling good since Paul was here.

As the record stopped, their breaths calmed down. Paul turned his head to gaze at John. So John did the same. They both had crinkled eyes and massive smiles, cheeks red and hair in disarray. Paul shifted closer to John.

“So, did it work?”

John hummed.

“It did.”

A silence followed the small dialogue. They maintained their eye-contact, which grew fonder and fonder by the minute. Paul’s eyes were sparkling in a myriad of colors. John was stunned by its variety; from a vivid green to a cheerful brown, it changed and glowed. But they were special in this moment. They were… loving. There were no comments to add to that, no toning it down, no jokes to make. These eyes for once were unveiled and opened to reveal its secrets. To John. And there was love. Maybe was he imagining it, and suddenly voices of doubt roared to confirm it; they quieted down as Paul’s smile relaxed to an equally loving one, his upper lip curling, his cupid’s bow graciously creasing. There were no voices. They didn’t dare to face such an opponent. They had been rendered powerless in front of the sight. Even John’s witty mind was muted. He could only be transfixed and mesmerized. Because these loving eyes were directed at him. At John.

John loved him.

With a thought that had emerged from the deepest part of his mind came the realization that this was no longer just an infatuation. The word had been pronounced and was now sealed in John’s head and there was no stepping back, there was no turning around, it was here in plain sight. He loved Paul. In his compulsive brain, he was seeing himself taking Paul’s face and kissing it till they couldn’t breathe, declaring his flame, staying with him forever. Later, he would think that he had been too hurried. That he had missed the consequences. But all of this was all a dream and thoughts trapped in his mind; he did none of these things in front of Paul. No, instead, Paul got up, and the moment ceased.

“Well,” Paul said as he extended his hand to him. “Let’s get that pasta, alright?”

Ah yes. The pasta. John nodded and grabbed his hand. He was up.

Afterwards, while they ate, John’s brain turned and turned around with his new revelation. He needed proof of what he felt. He wanted to be certain of his emotions and wishes. Something special, a unique event, an activity they hadn’t done yet, to see to what extent he would go, for Paul. A date once again. But a better one, a significant one. A sincere one. One that would tell him if he really would do anything for him. If he loved him.

It was the 10th of June. In eight days was Paul’s birthday. And John was preparing a plan.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 12_ **

(~ 8000 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yep. 
> 
> As always if you liked it, I'd be grateful if you left a comment, they really do make my day 💙  
> I'll see you next time, and meanwhile, take care !  
> Stay safe 💙


	13. It Don't Come Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs to know the depth of his feelings for Paul. What better way to do it than planning a special date for Paul's birthday?  
> Problem? Well, Paul is supposed to be working that day.  
> But is it really so complicated to solve that problem?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here's to a new chapter, kinda-John centered. From chapter 13 to 15, we will be pretty more John and Paul centered; but don't worry, the starrison will be back right afterwards.  
> I don't have much to say about this chapter, so I'll just wish you all a nice read ^^ Oh! And next chapter will be posted next Friday (already hehe I didn't want a long break between these three chapters). Do tell me if you liked it! 
> 
> Warnings: John makes Paul feels hot, but is it rly surprising tho  
> Edit: changed just the transport cause a dear commenter notified me there's no underground in Liverpool, and I don't like spreading fake news so now it's a train lol. Anyway enjoy lol

The next day, the 11th of June, Saturday, John came at eleven — waking up at ten during the weekend just to be on time represented an event in itself — in the restaurant. Hot Chillies was already vibrant with activity when he stepped inside. He was here with a mission, ready to be accomplished: convincing Paul of going out with him for his birthday. Which would be an unrelenting complex task, for he knew one thing about his boyfriend; his ethereal professionalism. There were rare chances of him agreeing right away, he expected much of a fight. But it had to happen. He needed it to happen. He wanted more of his lover. More of his time. And from himself, he needed to prove that what he had thought he felt was real: it was not a machination of his mind; his love for Paul. By planning all of this for Paul, he would comprehend the extent he’d go to please him, make him happy. Be with him.

Distantly, in his head he remembered George’s threat; it was completely disregarded. The sole thing that concerned him was if George found out. Which was why he couldn’t find out. Not until it happened.

In the restaurant, there was Paul and the other waiter — Jackie? Jamie? No Jimmy! — setting the tables and discussing together. Paul noted him and waved with a grin; he mouthed that he'd come in a minute. Presently, John went to the counter, waiting with his arms folded on it. The door of the kitchen was cracked open: there was no George, but there was another man inside. He didn’t know him. From what he could perceive, the man was as tall as Ringo, but much larger, chubby, compact. As his hands worked with knives and pans, his movements were lazy, but each time aggressive; if he tried to strike you in the face, the hit would come slowly but with a bruise all over your face. He had a perpetual frown under his dark fringe, tired bored eyes surrounded by tanned skin; John wondered if, to be hired as a cook in this place, you had to be expressionless — George was. But that didn't satisfy his question: where was George?

He was interrupted in his musing as Paul slid behind the counter and greeted him with his usual cheerfulness:

"Hey babe! How-"

"Babe?" John cut, taken aback. This was the first time he had given him a pet name. The shock on his face must have been worrying, for Paul instantly put his hand on his forearm, eyes searching him.

"I- Sorry, was it too soon? I didn't think, but if it's not ok I-"

"No. No, it's ok," John whispered in front of Paul's worry: he remembered to wait for John; he was willing to wait again; he wanted to call him babe. Somehow, this was enough of a reason to reinforce his resolve to surprise and please Paul on his birthday. Somehow, it made his insides squirm with tenderness. As his own hand slid to Paul's, he knew his eyes were twinkling with something akin to affection. "It's all good."

For a second, their gazes melted into each other, their smiles faded into one and god the fondness painted across Paul’s features was worth all the poetry in the world. What had he done to deserve such beautiful lov- No he had to stop thinking such things, when he wasn’t certain of his feelings; he wouldn’t let all of this go to waste for the rawness of his compulsiveness. Which was why his hand dropped from where it rested and he cleaned his throat wishing to change the subject. He had a goal after all.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you: are you free next Saturday?"

“No, I’m not. Why?”

“Well,” he had to be smooth. You could do this, John.“I was wondering if you could manage to be free for this special day… or you know, leave during the afternoon for this special occasio-”

“John, that’s sweet of you but I’m not ditching work for a birthday,” the progress of his suggestion was disrupted sharply by a low chuckle from Paul. It deflated him in an instant. No amount of pouting managed to change Paul’s decision, for he only chuckled some more. “We can always celebrate Monday, if it’s important for you, you know.”

“Of course it’s important! How come it wouldn’t be, it’s my boyfriend’s birthday!” John exclaimed, He almost missed the flush on Paul's cheeks as he uttered the word boyfriend out loud. Almost. It was true, they never used that term outloud; while it was official in his head — maybe in Paul's too — it hadn't been said: things that seemed obvious always transformed to a mesmerizing reality when pronounced for the whole world to hear. He stopped the blush from covering his own cheeks — poorly — and pleaded. “And it wouldn’t be the same Monday. Come on, please?”

It was too soon to even hope for a slight chance of victory; Paul was avoiding his begging eyes, and his stance was tense. Still not ready to accept. It was to be expected.

“I don’t know John. I can’t take a day off; George is already missing this week and-”

“George’s not here?!”

“No, he is teaching to some apprentices in a posh place in Manchester; he’s back Sunday morning," Paul informed, unbothered by John's sudden eager cry.

This was perfect. Oh, this was a sign of luck finally gracing him: George was gone this week. On the week of Paul’s birthday. No useless threatening; no glaring intimidation; no misled accusation. It was excellent. If this wasn't an occasion to fucking go on with his plan, he didn't know what it was.

He just needed to convince Paul now. Just had to. This was a tricky moment: he had to try on the charming mask his boyfriend always wore. Copy him. He spotted Paul's left hand resting on the counter, all lonely; this was his opportunity.

If there was one thing John had discovered in the two months he had known him, it was Paul’s rapt fascination with his hands — they were “beautiful”.

Leaning forwards as his forearms laid on the counter, he glided to his hand. Paul's didn't flinch until soft and long fingers started to graze his. John's motions were slow, tantalizing. They circled on his palm, before scratching his thumb with his, while the other's caresses were so faint they made Paul's arm tremble. So, so slow. During this, he stared at Paul from above his glasses, pinning him with his eyes.

"Come on, Paul… I would love to celebrate it… wouldn’t you want me to do something special for you? To please you for this day?" His tone of voice dropped lower as he spoke, slower in tempo, huskier and flirtier. His fingers climbed up to graze Paul's wrist, making the lad shiver. Paul's cheeks were flushed as he was staring at John's fingers, hypnotized. He was unable to look away from the motions, as if John's hand was the most entrancing sight he had laid his eyes on. He watched it sensually slide down from his forearm, passing by his wrist, to his fingers; John squeezed them for good measure, earning a choked breath. With a surge of boldness, he lowered himself even closer to Paul’s hand, and his lips brushed one finger, before kissing the tip of it. He had never seen Paul as red as he was right now. "A quick escape, just one day, together: wouldn't you like that, Paulie?"

John straightened with a feigned smirk; his hand was pinned on his. And now to hope it’d work. It had been a hell of a long time since John had been seductive like that; a year. It didn’t make him feel much at ease, as his self-disgust over his body prevented him from such bold moves. He pushed his nervousness down; confidence had to prevail.

Besides, he knew Paul was incredibly easy to turn on: he had a little hope this charming game would come to its terms. He wasn’t exaggerating: Paul had popped a boner one time just because John had cooked him a vegetarian dish, which had made him a bit too happy — the meal was fucking burnt, but John cooking for him actually made him excited and that was beyond understanding. The rare times it happened, Paul tried to conceal and not put John ill-at-ease. Should he feel guilty for using Paul’s weakness? Maybe. But it was fun and he was delighted he was still capable of doing that, despite… what had happened in the past. Plus he’d make sure to leave him the choice; he’d never force him to do anything. 

Biting his lower lip, Paul was having difficulty declining John's offer: John was actually succeeding, and god it happened so rarely he wanted to scream in victory. But he had to remain focused because Paul was trying to refuse.

"I-I… John I'm not-"

“Paul," he stopped in a firm whisper. "Just tell me your conditions. What would make you accept? But if nothing would, then I won’t push it. Just tell me.”

There was a purpose in that statement: it was a risk, to give Paul the chance to refuse; it was a sign of trust, to give Paul control over the decision. He had tried to convince Paul, but in the end, it was his choice, not John's: he would respect whatever would come out of this. To prove his point, he withdrew his hand away, not distracting him anymore. He saw Paul concentrate again, hesitating between accepting or declining; hazel eyes were narrowed, but flickering from John to his now lone hand. While John had not much hope about Paul taking a day off — missing a day of work for his own pleasure? Never! — he still believed perhaps Paul would accept a morning, a lunch, an hour. Anything. He needed it.

Paul hugged his arms to his chest as he exhaled loudly, as if trying to be calm. As if he had made a choice that he wasn't certain of, but wouldn't take it back: he wanted to make it.

"Alright John. Here are my conditions if you want this to happen." 

_“Don’t fuck it and listen”,_ was John’s first thought when he felt his senses being clouded by an overwhelming excitement that only Paul accepting could have produced. Fuck, he would fill every condition if it meant proving his feelings to Paul.

His boyfriend proceeded to list them, enumerating with his fingers and neutral in his tone, as a manager speaking about the tasks left to be done to his worker.

“Ok first: I am not taking a full day off. So it will have to take place in the afternoon, between my lunch and dinner service. Second: I need to be back on time, so whatever you plan mustn’t be far. Third, even if it’s not far, I’ll need someone to replace me for the beginning of the evening service; not long, but I’m supposed to be delivering you know, so I’ll need a bit of time to prepare. Four, my boss mustn’t know, so I need a cover in case he comes by the afternoon. And five,” he paused there, a little smile tugging at his lips despite the obvious anxiety his body displayed. “Don’t overdo it.”

Snorting, John couldn’t help but be amused by the last statement: it was likely the most complex thing in the list. Naturally there were some tough conditions, and John had yet no idea how to accomplish them: he was confident he would find a way. He would make this work. So he extended his hand, ready to seal the deal.

“Alright Paul,” he started, chin raised in challenge.“I’ll make sure all of these conditions are fulfilled. And I’ll come on the 18th of June, announcing that you’re invited to come with me. Do we have a deal?”

Paul looked at him with an eyebrow rose in curiosity; there was a dare in these hazel eyes and this malicious smile, a teasing glint, goading John, testing him: _“So you really think you can do it?”_ Perhaps because of disbelief in John’s abilities, perhaps because Paul didn’t expect anything for his birthday, perhaps because he was still not convinced it needed to be celebrated. Whatever the reason, the bet was there, and one of John’s features that had been quenched with time ignited again: the flame of competitiveness. To prove Paul he was wrong, that John could fill every condition and convince his birthday needed to be celebrated. He would win.

His hand was finally shaken, the deal sealed, accepted. The purpose of the next days was set.

They talked some more afterwards, small talks, bits of laughter, a quick kiss before going: the mission remained in the background of John’s head, already thought over, analysed, dissected: no solutions were found. But he had time left. He had so much time.

When he left, he was taking with him the challenge Paul had imposed on him, cradling it in his hand, seizing it with his fist. He had doubts about his success — but when did he ever stop having them about himself? There was this fear of not just failing — he had failed before after all — but of disappointing. Disappointing Paul. Being a disappointment again. Like so many times before.

But none of that! John shook his head, taking a determined step forward. He would do it. He would prove it.

To himself. To the voices in his head. To the world.

***

They were in another cafe this time. Stuart and John. It was a Tuesday, end of the afternoon, meeting after work. Nothing exceptional, apart from the topic of the discussion: Paul’s birthday. Because the situation was now critical: John had fulfilled none of the conditions, and the only things he had so far were birthday gifts and fleeting daydreams. John needed help.

He had texted Stuart yesterday evening, while Paul had been fiddling with John’s guitar, if they could meet up, stating there was an urgent matter to deal with. When Stuart had asked what it was about and got his answer, his initial reaction was to be confused as to why Ringo wasn’t the one helping — which was a pertinent question, as Ringo knew Paul more, and loved to help anyone: but Ringo couldn’t know. Ringo had been here when George had warned them. If he knew John was preparing a birthday date for Paul, when he was supposed to work, it would be hell. Presumably he would say that: _“it’s not because we have the weekend free that Paul is automatically free too!”_ ; which was true, but preferably ignored. Plus John had been stressed: Paul had inquired about how he was handling his mission, and John could only sputter a lame excuse, admitting he was still thinking. So, fortunately, Stuart took pity on him and obliged him. Here they were, in this fancy cafe, Stuart drinking another strange beverage — coconut milk with peanut butter in a coffee? Was this really a thing? — and John hugging his latte with his hands, while they both pondered on the conditions of Paul’s date. Especially one: what activity could they do in only one afternoon, that was neither too far nor too long, nor too short, but still special, and to Paul’s liking?

There were endless possibilities, but not enough to John's taste. He had disapproved of another of Stuart's suggestions, and his mate had dropped his head in his hands, groaning: it was the tenth idea that John had deemed " _not good enough for Paul_ ", or " _could be better_ ", or simply " _no, Paul deserves so much more_ "; which was why right now Paul would have nothing.

"God John!" Stuart cried in despair. "What is good enough for your Paul?! Seriously does he like anything?"

"Of course he does! But I don't like your ideas! You could do better Stuart I-"

"Excuse me but I'm not used to being the advice giver, normally it's your lil friend with the rings that does it.”

At that, John shut up. He sipped on his latte, for he had nothing to say: Stuart had made a point; he should be grateful he was actually helping him. They had made no progress, but they were trying. Wasn’t that the most important? Trying?

Of fucking course not, what the fuck he wasn’t going to tell Paul he had nothing but he should at least be happy he tried.

Stuart gulped down his thick and creamy beverage under his repulsed eyes, rubbing peanut butter off his mouth, before he spoke again.

"Anyway, let's get back to the basics: we are looking for a date for a birthday, not too long, not too far, but, and I quote: "amazingly original and special". Is that right?" 

John couldn’t agree more, and acquiesced. They hadn’t advanced one bit.

Fingers clutching his chin, Stuart’s brain was turning behind his sunglasses. An indecipherable frown on his face, but John had not wished to analyse it. He was lost in his own reverie, in his own reasoning, between rationality and dreams: imagining Paul’s face as he brought him to a lovely place, the place taking on a tangible form, until his mind drifted to a surreal motion of impressions and feelings where the place became magic and Paul was an ethereal being that he had pleased. Which meant that during all of this, he didn’t progress one bit. But he did gain one new poem idea.

After useless minutes of deep thinking and the confirmation that none had found anything, Stuart sighed and his fingers made a steeple.

"Ok, I need more information. What is Paul like? What does he like? Try to be constructive."

"Paul? Well..." he trailed on; what defined Paul? What did he like in Paul? What struck him in the person he loved? Who was Paul? In his mind, pictures flashed of heart-shaped smiles, vivid kaleidoscopic eyes, strong embraces radiating with warmth, mature intellect with a mysterious mind, charming kisses on his hand, reassuring presence by his side. John's features had softened and there was nothing around him but memories; he was back home, on his bed, watching the ceiling, dreaming. "Paul is love. He is homely and optimistic. He enjoys both the sun and rain, because one is brilliant and splendid and the other refreshing and calming. He likes rock music, bands from the 50s to the 90s. He plays guitar like a composer, sings like an angel, yells like a rocker. He is a vegetarian and loves nature and animals. He loves dessert; he is as sweet as them. When he speaks, it's with energy and charm. He gets excited when someone likes the same things as him, or when I remember something he barely mentioned. He doesn't talk much about his feelings, but he's always showing affection through touch and hugs. He works hard, every day, never stops; only stops for me. He listens and cares so much. He is amazing. Utterly amazing. He feels like he isn't special, but he is, Stuart," at that, his rapt gaze focused again on his friend, taking on such a serious tone compared to the mesmerized drawl he had carried until now. "And I want to prove it to him. I want him to see what I see: the most gorgeous and amazing man in the world."

This declaration came from the deepest part of his heart, one that had shyly hid away from the self-hatred voices of his mind. Suddenly, this heart had dared to talk, to confess loudly, to affirm and confirm the truth of his feelings. It left him a bit dazzled: he was blinking repeatedly, mouth closed, processing the strength of his words. He had been sincere. For once, to his own mind, he hadn't concealed anything between lies and doubts. The voices in his mind, the one he had been scared of, were quiet: as if defeated by the honesty he had revealed.

In front of him was Stuart facepalming, groaning once again. But John couldn't feel ashamed; he was strangely calm. At peace with the part of his heart that had spoken. His lips twitched in a smile.

"Oh my god John you're so fucking deep in it, it's terrible," Stuart moaned behind his hands, his sunglasses pushed up to his forehead. John chuckled, blushing a bit — God if he had allowed himself to react like that a year ago he would have slapped himself and puked the sappy emotions out of his system! Now, however, he didn't care. That was how he felt.

Stuart sighed for the fifth time since they had been there, hands finally slipping down for his sunglasses to fall back."But at least I have an idea now."

"Really?" John perked up as Stuart nodded. The man shrugged, evidence radiating from his movements.

"Why not take him to a farm?"

There was a moment where he couldn't understand where this suggestion came from. Therefore he made it known.

"A farm?"

"Yes a farm," he reiterated. "You said he was a warm fellow, liked animals, a nature boy, who would get excited and happy you remembered all of that. Plus, it's a real break from his work: I doubt he gets to do that often, going to a lil country visit."

This time, he could understand. An image of Paul, standing in front of a farm under a cloudy sky, around sheep and horses, beaming as he was surrounded by a cold nature that didn’t resist his warmth, appeared in his mind. This was it. This was the special thing. The place, where John would take Paul. For his birthday.

"... Stuart, you're a genius."

"About time you realized that. Just take him to Rice Lane City Farm; it’s thirty minutes with the train. Shouldn’t be too long.”

As Stuart vaped next to him, quietly observing his surroundings, John let relief seep through him. Two conditions were checked; on John’s mental list remained the last two. He had found a place that wasn’t too far, and a visit that wasn’t too long; while still being a special place, away from Paul’s daily life. As the knowledge of his half victory crawled up to his brain, a grin made itself at home on his face, for no other reasons but his happiness. This was done. He already had the gifts, and now he had the place. Fuck, it was as if someone was making sure the date would be a success.

He would believe it when the other two conditions were checked too. First, he had to find someone to replace Paul in case they came back late, or departed early. Second, he needed an alibi for Paul. His boss couldn’t know. Just as Ringo couldn’t know that he wasn’t listening to George. Just as George could never know. Never. Not in this lifetime.

He voiced the rest of his turmoil to Stuart. The man had a pensive frown as he analysed the problem. Of course he had no solution, and John didn’t expect him to have one. Yet, he had had a proposition, another one of his “why not?”. Another one that could help.

"Maybe if you asked the chef to help? You said that George lad was gone, right? I'm sure you can get the other one to help you. Just have to ask. After all, why wouldn’t he?"

It was brushed aside in the beginning. But it stayed in the back of his head.

As their coffees were drunk, this idea grew to use much more space in his brain. Occupying his thoughts. He never dropped out of the conversation, but the idea thrived. Until it didn’t seem foolish anymore. Until it became possible. It was becoming a strategy, a plan. It was prepared as he spoke about other subjects. He was seeing himself doing it, asking it. He was imagining himself being answered yes.

Because, after all, why wouldn’t the other chef say yes?

***

It was Friday morning, eight, 17th of June, a day before Paul’s birthday. John was entering Hot Chillies, determined to finally ask what he had been planning since Tuesday: the kitchen help’s cooperation in John’s plan.

He didn't know the man. At all. No information about him, Paul never talked about him. George didn't mention him — but he was too busy yelling at John everytime to do that, wasn’t he? — nor Ringo. It was a bit of a mystery, what would happen and what he would have to expect. But he had come early, when the place was devoid of clients and most of its employees, to discuss John's wishes face-to-face.

When he stepped in, the restaurant was eerily silent. From the kitchen, no noises. As if the kitchen help wasn't here. Clutching the edges of his jacket to his chest, John walked and inspected his surroundings. It was dark, the sun barely lighting the room, the tables not set, no waiters, no boss. Lifeless. Maybe eight in the morning was too early, and the man arrived later. Maybe John was alone. Maybe-

He heard someone clear his throat roughly, startling him from the void of the room. It came from the kitchen. The door was closed, but he could see through the opening in the wall a tanned arm. There was someone there. Swiftly, he moved to the kitchen and opened the door. There he was: the kitchen help. He wasn't working, but he was present. Bored. Scrolling through his phone, back leaning on the fridge, fringe hiding his eyes. He didn't seem to notice John, until he approached him. When his feet were in front of the man, John halted, and waited to be acknowledged. He didn't know why, but he felt like this was a grave moment. There couldn't be any laughter or jokes. The man looked up and he smirked, as if he understood everything without him saying a word.

"So you're Paul's boyfriend. John. I was waiting for you. For that date."

Taken aback, he hadn’t expected to be known. Not when he had never met the lad. 

"I-I, how do you know that, mate?"

"It's Jacob,” the man informed with a shrug. “And it was rather easy to guess, since your talk with Paul last time wasn't really discreet. I heard everything."

Ah. It wasn’t like John was known for his discretion. Or his tact. Or anything in that regard. He was quite a loud man; the boss could have heard; he cursed at himself. But Jacob was looking with uninterest; he was losing the man and John had barely begun to explain himself. There was no time to waste.

"Well if you already know everything, you'll accept helping me to make it happen,” he mustered his confidence, observing the man back. “I don't see why you would refuse after all: you have nothing to gain from it."

"No I don't. But I have nothing to gain if I accept. Except if you slip a lil tip in me hand right here."

John had prepared for this eventuality. The extended hand waited for it. He slipped fifty pounds in it, but the man gripped his tightly. He had it entrapped, grasped roughly, showing his strength through it. As if sealing a deal that John couldn't break. It was a game; he had played in that field; years of teenage wildlife and middle-class rebellion taught him of this little challenge, trying to be the toughest; his hand tightened back. Both glaring: Jacob with a sneer, John with a frown.

However, when this was over, Jacob changed in front of John's eyes: the sinister mask that he had worn, that made him look like a muscled version of the Cheshire Cat, was gone for a warmer and cooler one. More laid back and relaxed. Grinning, fooling John by convincing him it was all settled between them, and making him trust a man he knew for less than ten minutes.

"How can I help you then mate? Tell me, I'll do it,” his tone was open and inviting, without being energetic.

John sighed, leaning back; a worktop was here to support him.

"As you know, I wanna take Paul out for his birthday. But I need a cover for him in case your boss appears. And I need someone to replace him if we arrive late. That's all that's left."

The man bore no pensive expression. In his mind, there was no reflection, no trace of imagination. White void. It was as if there was no thinking to be done when faced with such a problem. Disconcertingly uninteresting and easy. Not stimulating him. Unsure of his plan, John’s fingers dug in his folded arms. This was a short scary sign, for as soon as a minute passed, Jacob spoke. Monotonous, unbothered, but his words brought John what he needed to hear.

"About the first one, it's already solved," he turned around and walked to the counter in the entrance. Coming back, he possessed a note that he passed over. On it was an elegant writing from a man named Douglas Bailey. "Our boss left that yesterday. He said he was going to his restaurant on the dock this weekend. They're having a special event or something. So he won't be here all weekend. No worry about that for you then."

In John’s mental list, a third condition was checked.

"About the second one,” Jacob carried on, settling back to his previous relaxed stance.“Since the boss is absent, we can delay the delivery service. Instead of half past six, we can start at half past seven. Jimmy can't take over the deliveries since he is catering already, but whenever he intercepts the calls, he can tell them we start the deliveries at this hour. Should give enough time for your boyfriend to be back. He'll have more work, but I don't think it'll be a problem for him."

The fourth condition was checked.

All of the conditions were checked.

John’s list was finished, and it meant that it was over; there was nothing left to do; he had worked it out.

Eyebrows shot up; no, he couldn’t have.

"... so that's it? That's so easy."

"What did you expect? Something dramatic?" Jacob snorted. His phone was back in his hands; to him, the matter was settled. There was nothing left to be said and wasn’t he right? The problem had been solved: he had found two solutions to two questions. Simply, easily — something John wouldn’t ever consider, because since when did a basic solution fix a troublesome problem? Why make it simple when you could make it complicated? This was obviously impossible for him to fully grasp. A triumph. When was the last time he managed something so easily? Even asking Paul out that first time had barely looked like a victory; he had been such a nervous wreck. He was lost in his incomprehension, while Jacob departed from the conversation. Until John finally choked some words out of his confusion — why the fuck couldn’t he accept that it was ridiculously easy?

"No no, it's just- I hadn't expected to actually manage it."

Without glancing up from his phone, Jacob leant forward to pat his shoulder in a somewhat encouraging manner; it was missed and he patted his torso instead.

"Well, cheers mate! It seems you just did!" his hand drifted until he landed on his shoulder and finally patted the right area. He didn’t catch John’s distress. He was so relaxed about it.

Was it wrong? It wasn’t. As John observed the man, his fog of confusion dissipated. If the man was acting so light-heartedly about it, there was no reason for John not to. He could accept that it was that easy for once. It didn’t have to be so complicated. Perhaps could he even enjoy it.

As this belief grew in his head, he finally nodded. Yes. He had done it. It would work. He nodded more energetically. This was it.

"Thanks. For your help,” he told the man. Jacob glimpsed from behind his phone, lips quirked up.

"No prob’. Just come back on time."

Of course John would. He wouldn't fuck this. Not when it was so easy.

As he walked out, he was realizing how everything had been resolved. Certainly, the naturalness of it all was disturbing to him, but not to others. It seemed both Stuart and Jacob had found solutions for him, directly. They hadn’t needed fears to overtake each of their decisions. They just did it. He was resolute to do the same. To accept these solutions. To throw away the worries of his mind. It didn’t have to be complicated.

For once, signs were piling up to tell him this was the right thing. The whole world was helping him. He wouldn’t give it up in favors of fears.

*** 

John had succeeded.

It was Saturday, the 18th of June, and all the conditions had been accomplished. Against all the doubts and self-deprecating voices of his mind, he had succeeded.

It was one in the afternoon. He was in front of the restaurant, watching through the windows, recalling his plan. He would help Paul finish his service, so they could leave before two. When that would be done, they'd arrive at the farm around half past two. There, they would visit, take their time, be together, have a sweet snack, love each other: make Paul feel special, and worth every sign of affection from John; make John realize the depth of his feelings. The gifts expected them at the end of the date; John would offer them with hope it was to Paul's liking. Next, depending on the time and the mood, they would walk back or take a cab. Hold hands. Speak in ushered voices and quiet giggles. And in front of the restaurant, he would let him go: promising tonight, he would do it — his last gift, if the date had gone well, and John had learnt that he really did love Paul. While he was still reluctant to let himself be touched intimately, after what happened, Paul had proven that he could be trusted, and he could be halted; not like Thomas. He had proven that, if John was — well, thought he was — a failure, he wouldn't leave; not like his mother and father. He had proven that he could adapt to John's pace and understand him; he wouldn't push him; not like his aunt. Which was why he would do it, if he loved Paul, and the date had demonstrated it. He was willing to jump into the rabbit hole, no matter how many scars from the past had tried to prevent him from doing so. He would offer him his heart.

People were entering and exiting Hot Chillies, obvious to John's turmoil. But who could have guessed it? From an outsider, John seemed like a nervous boy who waited for a friend; dressed in a blue denim jacket and lighter jeans, white New York tank top, and his hair cut to the nape of his neck in long curls, he looked ordinary. But the relentlessness in his feet betrayed him, and his creased brows were too worried to thoroughly convince anyone he was serene. He was hesitating.

Hadn't it been too easy? He actually did it. Fuck.

As much as he wished not to believe it, he was brought back to reality when Jacob had stepped out of the restaurant to meet him. Probably was he still finishing some plates, but had taken a break. John imagined that, but he was wrong, when the man talked to him.

"What are you waiting for? Are you losing your nerves? Come on mate, after everything you did to make this happen, you're not gonna waste it all by waiting for too long, are ya?" he chuckled at the end of his sentence, as if playfully teasing him.

Somehow, the funny jokes had snapped John out of his absence and reticence. He had had the confidence to do it until now; a confidence he had thought to be lost so long ago; it was back. He wasn’t going to give it up. After all, he could allow himself one victory, couldn't he? 

He nodded, with a smirk that matched Jacob's lazy one and entered the restaurant.

Spotting Paul at the counter, playing with the cash register, he decided to act fast before he lost his confidence. He strode to him and knocked on the surface, making his boyfriend look up; his eyes lit up when they met John’s.

“Happy birthday, love. Need any help before we go?”

“Well, there are a few tables left and- wait what?” Paul had begun, shifting into his work mode, before he abruptly interrupted himself. His eyes had widened as he slowly looked up. “We’re going?”

John nodded. There was a second where Paul remained unmoving, until he was beaming.

“You really did it? Every condition?”

John nodded a second time, and God, how much he loved seeing these hazel eyes sparkle with excitement whenever he did something for him! Paul walked to him and embraced him suddenly; not for long, an instant, as not to break his professional credo, but enough to reflect his thankfulness to John. His heart warmed up.

For the next thirty minutes or so, he helped Paul finish the service — there were no deliveries at lunch hour, so Paul worked as a waiter — by washing the dishes or cleaning empty tables; he had no knowledge of catering but he still knew how to use a sponge. When they were done, the restaurant cleaned and void, Jacob told them to go. Paul had looked at him, unsure, but anticipating: he knew nothing of the surprise, except for his arrangement with Jacob. Dressed in John’s Bowie t-shirt and skinny black pants, black sneakers, he was waiting for John, patient. As John approached the exit, he extended his hand to Paul’s. With an inviting tone, he asked:

“Shall we go?”

Paul took his hand.

They stepped out, to enjoy John’s success.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 13_ **

(~ 6400 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is gonna be filled with many events as we go through the bday date: look forward to tons of fluff, and lots of emotions ♥  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, don't be scared to leave a comment if you did and I'll be able to reply. I wish you all a wonderful day/night, whether it's rainy or sunny or snowy (here it's raining).  
> I'm looking forward to seeing you all again next Friday with chapter 14!


	14. Country Dreamer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The birthday date. Animals, laughter, gifts and hugs. 
> 
> Also starring Linda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone here for chapter 14, and Hello again for the people that I saw on the one shot I posted yesterday ! 
> 
> This is quite a big chapter, as there s a lot happening here. When I wrote it, I thought maybe it was a bit exaggerated and dramatic. Also tried to be poetic at one point, dont know. But you all will be the judge of that.  
> So get comfortable in a quiet space, grab a drink, cause this is going to be a long one (but a good one I promise)  
> As always dont forget to leave a comment if you liked it, it'll make me smile ^^  
> Enjoy !

Paul was sitting next to John in the wagon nervously picking at his nails, shifting his gaze everywhere, uneasy yet excited. But John squeezed his hand in his, preventing him from ruining more of his fingers; he squeezed back. Regardless of how many people were there in the train, John was next to him, and it was alright. He barely had to wait twenty minutes now, and they would arrive at their surprise destination. An unknown location. For Paul. 

This morning, he had woken up at eight and hadn't thought about his birthday. It was a usual Saturday morning, waking up and staring at the ceiling, feeling empty, for twenty minutes. Once he heard noises from downstairs, it was the signal his dad was awake and it was time to get up, refreshed and cheered up — how? By pretending until it felt natural to wear a smile on his face. He slipped in the bathroom, prepared for his day, and by the time he was done brushing his hair, the smile had become second-nature; he even forgot it had been artificial to begin with. Greeting his dad, reassuring him with that same smile. His dad's gruff welcome and birthday wishes as he poured them tea. Direct and brief discussion. Next going for his work, wearing John's Bowie t-shirt — white with Ziggy Stardust blending with the Union Jack colors — and his usual skinny black jeans. The sun was out and the temperature was mild; not disgustingly hot as it would be in July, but agreeable. He arrived and was welcomed with Jacob telling him there weren't many deliveries, and he'd mostly work with Jimmy to serve the tables. By one o'clock, there were no more deliveries. A rare quiet Saturday lunch. All consideration about his birthday shoved to the deepest corner of his head; today seemed to be a tranquil day. But a particular individual that he knew and cared for stepped through the doors and reminded him of the meaning of the day: John.

For a minute, when he had looked up to distinguish his boyfriend facing him, happy to see him, he had abruptly looked back down to his cash register: because John was hot. He had no better word. No, actually he had many other words that crashed into his mind: he was hot and soft and handsome and attractive and there were so many feelings rushing to him that he had been so flustered and couldn't stare at him for longer. In his tight blue jeans that hugged his thick thighs so well, cuffed to the ankles; his oversized denim jacket that made his jawn slightly hidden, all soft; his white tank top with "New York" written on it that fitted to his torso attractively; his hair beautifully curled to frame his face and paint it with auburn shades; gleaming eyes behind round glasses, happy, twinkling. God. God damn Paul couldn't get a hold on himself. He felt he was going to have a problem soon so he shifted to his work mode quickly.

But then, John had announced he had managed it: he had fulfilled every condition Paul had imposed, he had prepared a surprise date for his birthday. Paul could leave his job, for some hours, free, without any risk. It was too good to believe. Or too terrible to believe. Why did he think that? Because Paul wasn't too keen on surprises: they were often destructive. Did more harm than good. They had been this way since he had been informed of his mother's passing (surprise!). To be honest, he had hoped the length and complexity of his conditions would discourage his lover. The contrary had happened: it had encouraged it. His boyfriend had never struck him as the competitive type, yet he had risen to the challenge, to somehow, get him that surprise date. Triumphantly declared it and headed outside once he had helped with the end of the service. Presently they were in the train, going to a mystery place; they started from the Liverpool Central station, going in the direction of Ormskirk, and had so far ridden three stops. Where would they stop? Where was John taking him? His boyfriend’s eyes were closed.

The only thing he had been told was that he had a cover for tonight thanks to Jimmy and Jacob: Jacob would delay the deliveries, they'd arrive on time, his boss wasn't there, and Jimmy would replace him if he missed the beginning of the service. That was all he knew.

Paul was lost on what to really make out of this. He should be buzzing with happiness, but he couldn’t; not yet. Because, in a way, he had no idea of what was planned — and that was enough to actually pressure him. Paul loved planning, and knowing, and controlling, and being in charge: right now, he wasn’t doing any of these things, and couldn’t do any of them. It was nerve-wracking. And his job? What if John’s cover hadn’t been convenient? And since when did he fucking leave his duties and his responsibilities to fuck around with a boyfriend? In what world- what happened to his professionalism and everything that made him a trusted hard-working employee? John happened, obviously. He had no other excuse but a pathetic “John wanted to surprise me and I couldn’t say no to him now, could I?”. Which he wouldn’t have believed before he met the man. Still, it didn’t alter his state of mind, balancing between anxiety and excitement. Lost in his thoughts, his feelings oscillated for the rest of the ride.

A hand tugged at his. He blinked, the train of his running questions and reprimands abruptly braked and confused him for a second: John was up in front of him, smirking with mischief and thrill.

“Come on Paul! We can’t miss your surprise now, can we?”

He followed him with a distracted nod.

Watching his surroundings, he found they had stopped at Walton station, a place he rarely went to — but did he ever get further than his father’s house or the restaurant? They walked outside, climbing stairs to get to the fresh air his dizzy mind desperately craved. Once out, Paul focused on the present moment, preparing himself mentally for what was to come. Turning left, they followed a narrow — very narrow — public footpath, completely — really completely — deserted. Enclosed on their right by red walls from houses and on their left by green barriers protecting a sort of field with trees, the passage seemed infinite. John was in front of him, directing him. The narrowness eventually made way for a broader road called Rawcliffe, houses all around them. He didn’t understand where John was taking him; it was more of a residential street than anything else. But another tug on his hand forced him to move on, before their hands separated again. As they walked farther, houses disappeared in favor of tall oak trees — or maybe another type of tree he had no clue — leading the way. The street was a dead end however, as he saw closed gates in the distance. At one point on his right was a sign for the Walton Park Cemetery. Had Lennon taken him to a graveyard for his birthday, as a sort of joke? It would have proven surprises were always unpleasant. But John hadn’t stopped. They continued till they arrived at wide gates with two cardboard characters disguised in overalls, boots, and straw hats. Beyond the gates were traditional red-bricked houses, a chapel, and a field with families walking and kids giggling, and… sheep? And- was that a goat that had run to a kid? John entered with no hesitation. The view got clearer, and he saw fences, graves, other animals, other happy kids, trees, nature; a snap of the countryside in the middle of Liverpool. Inside, after the gates, was a renewed wooden sign, with a goat as a logo and a writing. It stated the following:

**_“Welcome to Rice Lane City Farm!”_ **

Paul’s eyes widened. The words had stripped him of any more nervousness. Frozen, till he slowly glanced at John: the man had a bashful, hopeful smile on his face, as he leaned on the sign, arms folded. He looked nervous but satisfied. Waiting for Paul to react. Which he did. His own gaping mouth twitched to a full beam, fists tight on his chest, his arms trembling, and eyes crinkling up. Gone was the anxiety with the simple sign and the sight of his boyfriend next to it. He shouted with pure joy:

“Did- did you take me to a farm?!”

John grinned, for it was the only thing he could to stop himself from giggling.

“Yes I did. You like it?”

A minute earlier, when he was still concerned about his job, he wouldn’t have reacted the way he did: but now that part of him had been gone and replaced with childlike glee, and his once careful professionalism had been thrown to the wind. So he did jump, clapped his hands, hugged John to his chest, and screamed a big “YES”, laughing wildly, John joining him: both of them looking like crazy overgrown kids in the entrance of the homely farm. Embracing each other. Happy.

A farm. He would never have guessed that John would take him to a farm. It was a dream.

When they calmed down, still beaming stupidly, Paul couldn’t help himself: even though they had visited nothing yet, he had to voice his thanks. John simply smirked in return.

The urge to grab the man in his arms for a second time had never been so strong.

Before the visit, John proposed they took a brief stop at the charity café of the farm, to “grab a lil sweet treat or something” and how could Paul possibly answer no to that? Besides, it gave him the time to attempt to calm himself and act decently — not like an overgrown child. They made their way to another more humble red house with massive glazed windows and “Café” handwritten on a plank. Entering, Paul was confronted with dozens of treats, ranging from pastries to cookies, passing by buns and milkshakes. Naturally, John cut him from even trying to pay, no matter how hard he insisted. Therefore, he ordered a small chocolate bun, the most inexpensive sweet that was proposed. As John glared at his choice, he overlooked it; he would have much more during this date and he could feel the embarrassment creeping to his cheeks. He still didn’t know if that made him happy or not. 

John suggested he went to a table while he waited, and Paul did so, finding a round and high one by the window. From his position, he could see the outside clearly. It was another point of view of the farm: a walk on the left leading to what was called the “Ghostly Path” — a trail following old graves, that led to a wooden barn; various enclosures on the right, with an artificial pond and animals going in and out of the area freely on the right. Sheep, goats on a lawn; from afar a stable with stallions. He couldn’t wait to explore it all. Bubbling joy threatened to burst once again; this was just like what he had imagined to have one day. He had always been a nature boy; as a kid, he loved going to his aunt’s house in Scotland and running through fields. He’d get to see so many animals there. It made him nostalgic of a past innocent glee, where everything was easy and free, where there were no expectations, no responsibilities, no pain and no fears; a span in time extracted from a distant reality, that was so far that it became more of a dream. He loved this surprise.

John came back, with two chocolate buns, a latte for himself, and another drink that Paul hadn’t ordered. Paul shook his head in amusement when he caught John’s mischievous glint; of course he bought him something else.

“You’re impossible John,” he chastised him fakely, as John sat down next to him with the tray. The lad’s grin grew broader if it could. “And what did you get me then?”

Proudly nudging it toward him, John announced loudly: “A banana milkshake!”

It wasn’t needed to tell you that this was probably the best milkshake he ever had and one of the minor, insignificant details he would remember the most from this date. When he first drew the cartoon straw to his lips and drank, John could have said anything he wouldn't have heard. Which was why when he was done, John looked at him, amused, but not surprised in the slightest, for he was getting used to it. Trying to compose himself once again — first his childlike joy when seeing they were in a farm, and now this? It was too much — he wanted to appear a bit more serious. He thought that, perhaps, he could show how much this meant to him; perhaps could he share a part of his past. Not much, as usual.

“You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to buy a farm later," he started, looking with a gaze full of memories at John's resting hands. His voice carried on a matured glee, more of a contented remembrance of the past; it was so rare, recalling a once happy day. "We used to go to Scotland when I was a kid. There were farms, and horses, and the sea and- it was always so calm and free. My aunt had a farm, and I wanted the same one. Something I always had in the back of my mind…" but that thought was quieted at that point, because he suddenly had a flash forward to the reason they had stopped going. The day his mother… So his blurry eyes quickly focused back on John's, and he smiled; no use dwelling on that. "Which makes me wonder how you got the idea.”

John hummed, obliging him.

“A friend — Stu — and I had a bit of a brainstorming session over it; since you love animals and nature, we thought it would be a good idea. I’m glad you do like it.”

“The artsy guy?”

“Yes, him,” he snorted. What had been funny in that sentence, Paul wouldn’t know; his tone hadn’t been that harsh, had it? John tapped his hand on the table, signalling to the buns on the trays.“Now eat up: we still have lots to do!”

Once their treats were eaten and Paul had, according to John, his “sweet fix” — so what if he loved sweet food there wasn’t a problem with that now was it? — they departed for the farm part of the park, which meant they went right first. Crossing the yard, they followed the giggles of children to arrive at their destination. This time, Paul could perceive everything clearer. Between a large red-bricked house and a wooden stable, the artificial pond was tranquil and charming. Surrounded by small log cabins filled with straws, animals were free to enter or exit the enclosed artificial paradise. Ducks were swimming with geese, or paddling around the pond. Red, black, and white hens were either in their cabins or picking at the ground. One child was petting one as a volunteer held it for him. Rabbits were also jumping next to families, while cats slept on top of the cabins. Other children were behind the stable, where two brown horses and a donkey stood in silence. Next to the most spacious and independent place was an enclosed one, with pigs walking in the mud, three packed together. By the end, on the lawn, were sheep and goat, little lambs under tall trees. It would have been an oddly calm scene with its picturesque background, if it weren’t for the families and their children who played and laughed all around. But Paul didn’t mind them; he loved childrens. Should he have been honest, he would have admitted he ended up playing with them for a couple of minutes; John had only looked on, but didn’t join. 

Until he was forced to. Approaching the animals, Paul decided to make a grand entrance in the farm. Without warning, he ran after a Sussex hen to capture it in his arms: naturally three kids followed him right away, giggling and cheering on. They were creating a mess, all the other hens fleeing the group as Paul waved his arms helplessly. Unfortunately, John was forced to run after him to stop him from his strike of playfulness — he was terrorizing the poor other hens. Paul didn't give up, and finally — with a magnificent jump — he had the Sussex hen in his arms. As children clapped, John caught up, breathing heavily. It didn't prevent him from shouting. 

“Stop scaring the chicks away!”

At that, Paul couldn’t help himself: he had to make a joke.

“Wouldn’t you like that if I had no “chicks” around?”

For a second, John had only gawked at him, silent, dumbfounded in front of Paul’s mischievous grin. The kids had left the pair to return to their parents, and only the Sussex hen remained in Paul’s arms, looking inquisitively at John. Eventually, he found some words.

“... Son that is a very bad joke,” 

They cackled loudly, before walking around once again together. The lingering tension between them — due to Paul mostly, as he was entrapped between controlling himself and leaving his joyful emotions to take over him — had been subdued. They stayed near the pond to watch the ducks and geese. Next to them were more hens that started to follow them: Paul could name every race, and John was baffled by Paul's knowledge of farm animals. Carrying his now adopted Sussex hen in his arms — he had called her Linda, and she was nuzzling his arms — they walked to stables. John didn't want to pet the horses, however: he said that they already were more loved than the poor grey aging donkey, who was lazily munching during John's "justice to donkeys" speech. Even after his eloquent defence, Paul still caressed the horses, to John's grumpy grumble. The hen had nested herself comfortably against his chest, and Paul petted her through the rest of their walk.

Close to them, a rabbit jumped on their right, scaring the shit out of John, to Paul’s amusement. It was a graceful albino rabbit, his red eyes gleaming mysteriously. As they observed it spring randomly, aimlessly, John made a comment.

“You’re like a bunny.”

At that, Paul answered automatically, without his mind to regulate his words.

“And you’re like a cat,” to John’s perplexed expression, he continued. “You’re always sleeping. All the time,” John snorted, but Paul wasn’t done. “But you’re also gentle. See, you’ve got this sort of intimidating and mysterious aura, and if someone touched you wrong, you’d bite their hands off easily. However, inside, there's only a lad that cares and wants to be cared for. Who lets their guard down around me, and is never too far from me. Who I want to be with and hug close. And when you sleep, you’re just-” he paused, to look back at John, and his eyes widened; his lover’s eyes were blown and his mouth was agape, completely taken away. The crimson color of his freckled cheeks was reflecting the glow in his chestnut eyes. As he began to admire John’s features, he trailed on; his sentence was hanging in the air, waiting to be finished. To discover the word to describe, not only what he had been thinking about, but what he was seeing now. It entered his mind, naturally. From the deepest part of his heart. 

“Peaceful and beautiful.”

In an instant, John broke the eye-contact; his fingers were rubbing his eyes.

He gave him a moment. Simultaneously, he caressed the hen in his arms, who remained there, all tucked in: it seemed she was relatively happy to be there; perhaps he could try to bring her home; but where would he put her? They had no garden. A hen couldn’t live in a cage in the living-room. He noticed she had a little blue bracelet on one of her legs; next time he came, he would recognize her at least.

John cleaned his throat, and both he and Linda the hen turned their attention to him. It seemed he was more embarrassed than anything now. Scratching his nape, he looked down to the ground.

“... And here I just said you were like a bunny because of your teeth. Now I feel stupid.”

Oh. Well, it seemed Paul’s romantic heart overdid it once again. He burst out laughing, teasingly reprimanding himself in his head, and managing a poor “oops” to John; his lover chuckled, finally looking up; his eyes were glowing, something akin to a shy thankfulness. Paul's arm circled his boyfriend's shoulders, and they strolled away from the bunny.

They went to the pigs then, as their pen was next to the one they were in. A girl, chocolate stains on her cheeks, not far from five years old, spoke out loud next to them, stating “have you seen the little piggies?. However John made a mistake; he sarcastically replied, in a failed private joke to Paul: “yeah we saw you!" Paul looked mortified, enough so that John realized he had been too loud. They both stared at each other, John's hand slowly covering his mouth. The girl had gasped, and screamed “NO!” before stomping off. After that incident, they quickly retreated.

To go see the lawn section, they had to leave the artificial pond and its hens. No matter how much pleading Paul did to the volunteer taking care of the pen, he had to let his hen go. He stared in her jet-black peering eyes; he had grown so attached to her already. He hugged her to his chest and put her down to the ground. The hen, his lovely Linda, stayed still for a minute. She looked at him, making the departing harder for Paul. She cackled warmly, before scurrying off to her group, with other Sussex and Leghorn and Plymouth Rock hens. John patted his shoulder as moral support through the goodbye.

The sheep and lambs — they were about ten — were quiet in their lawn; they didn’t move much; actually most of them were just laying down, resting under the June sun. The kids were a bit disappointed not to see them move uselessly, but he and John didn’t particularly care. The four goats, however, were restless, especially the youngest. They kept running after each other in a circle, and it was dizzy to follow. Frankly, Paul grew more absorbed by a peaceful scene under a pine tree; a sleeping sheep, with a shepherd dog with it, its head resting on the sheep’s stomach. He took John’s hand for him to accompany him. For some time, they just knelt next to them, Paul scratching behind the dog’s ear, John’s thumb making circles on Paul’s hand. It was a bit scheduled, much more discreet, much more private; oddly soothing and relaxing. The hand in his was warm. Without any concern, he let his head slide to John’s shoulder; he felt the man tense for a second, before he relaxed too. Feeling his aquiline nose nuzzle in his hair, Paul sighed. This was nice.

That was how they had concluded the visit to the farm. When they were done, John suggested they took the Ghostly Path — a trail starting from the farm to an isolated historic barn, the walk going through a section of the cemetery. As they traveled along the path, they observed graves with unknown names recounting various stories from the soldier who died for his nation and the lonely elderly woman who died of the Spanish plague. The noise from the farm grew quieter in the back. Before long, no giggles, no screaming, no families were heard; the sole sound was from their feet and the gentle wind rustling the leaves. But the silence was welcomed, and they didn’t speak. Paul’s hands were in his jean pockets, and he took a deep breath from the clean air. Nature was surrounding him, and he couldn’t remember the last time it did. Next to him was John, staring directly ahead, with a determined aura in his stance. As if he had something waiting for him at the end of this walk. The date had already been so perfect, Paul couldn’t possibly imagine more. It was a moment of calm, a peaceful and gleeful break from the job he suffered each day. 

A fleeting reminder crossed his mind: he was supposed to be at the restaurant. Even if he was mostly waiting when it was the afternoons, he would have to deliver tonight. Thus far, he had no idea of the time it was. But… curiously, he couldn’t find it in himself to be distressed: he trusted John. He knew he had prepared this: the farm visit, the treat, the stroll in the park; things that he had enormously enjoyed. For once in his life, he was too content to freak out and stress. So he didn’t.

The barn at the end was relatively small and barely used; from its dusty wood planks to its greying color, there wasn’t much to salvage. It seemed to merely be filled with straws which were haphazardly thrown in. Next was a lone bench, green with its frame covered with ivy. However, that was where John’s feet decided to stop. Perplexed at the sudden halt, Paul voiced his interrogation, which was instantly dismissed. On the contrary, the man pointed to the bench as he suggested he sat there, while he would "be right back". He didn’t leave right away, for he wished to ensure Paul was sitting and had his back turned to the barn. Once he did, Paul heard him leave. For a split second, Paul wondered if this was another surprise — it was funny how he was gradually starting to enjoy surprises again — but not wanting to spoil the possibility, he looked ahead and observed his surroundings. In front of him were poplars on each side of the lawn, where he could discern sheep from earlier. Oak trees were spread randomly across the land. The sun illuminated the scene, its colors coming to life from the summer’s breath. The grass wasn’t dried and burnt yet from the unfortunate heatwaves; nature still had time to thrive. Paul closed his eyes: the air brushed through his fringe. His mind was a calm sea.

The bench creaked next to him. Mechanically, he was about to open his eyes; a hand prevented him from doing so, masking his eyes.

“Hahaha, not yet! You’re gonna have to wait a sec lad to open those pretty eyes.”

“What else are you preparing again?” Paul chuckled despite the hand pressed on his lips too.

“Be patient and you’ll know.”

Sitting straight, Paul decided to humor John and play along with his game. When the hand was withdrawn, he kept his eyes closed, with a faint smile. Noises: a tear strip being pulled, something being lifted up, but with great care. It took a minute, time stretching as he waited, blinded. The something was positioned on his legs, a familiar weight resting on his thighs and chest; a reasonably large and curvy object. But he was told to keep his eyes close still. Lost in the dark. However, John grabbed both of his hands, directing them. They were warm. He furrowed his brows, puzzled. Until they finally landed; when one touched an elongated wooden neck, and the other grazed metal strings, making a clear, rough, harmonious sound, all reflections stopped. This couldn't be... John’s hands slowly departed from his, leaving him to experiment with the object. His right-hand unclenched and clenched the neck repeatedly, before expertly placing three fingers on three different strings and three different frets: a C chord. Should he? Or perhaps… His left wrist was trembling on its body, fingers hovering over the strings. His eyes were still shut, but he didn’t wish to open them anymore. It was a dream; this was simply too meaningful to be true; he had fallen asleep while waiting for John and was now imagining a guitar rested on his lap. A guitar. He was terrified that, if his fingers rang the strings, no sound would come out of it; the instrument would fade away. If it didn’t, that would mean John had offered him a guitar; he had a guitar again. No, that was impossible, against what he deserved, that was simply-

John’s right hand took hold of his a second time. Their hands joined, he was lowering Paul’s fingers to the strings, despite his unbeaten reluctance. Paul’s anxiety rose. His breath was caught. It was happening.

John pulled their hands up, before lowering them down, and strumming the strings one by one. Sounds. The C chord became alive.

Paul gasped. His eyes flew open, and were glistening the moment they came across the object in his lap: an acoustic, deep brown guitar. The strings were new and the wood was old. Polished, it shined in his lap, and its hollow chamber was staring back. The guitar hadn’t fled. It was real.

With another tremble from his lip, he turned to John and croaked out his question:

“Ar- are you offering me a guitar?”

John nodded.

At that, Paul exhaled loudly, as one hand left the guitar to support his forehead. He was having trouble controlling himself. He had a guitar again. A guitar. Something he had to be separated to such a long time ago. Something that was a reminder of his past. Something that whispered words to his ears and engulfed his heart in music. A piece of himself had been brought back, emerging from the ocean of responsibilities and troubles and misfortunes. A tidal wave had submerged him with emotions, but when the wave withdrew, he had taken with him every past memory of his old guitar. It was in his lap. It was back.

It had returned to him.

Vainly controlling his emotions — at any other moment, he would have been ashamed about it, but now he could care less — he was about to hug John and thank him. But the man, whose expression stood serious and grave, analysing his every move and feature, raised his hand in a stopping sign. Puzzled once again, Paul shut his mouth, feeling his joy stay on hold.

“There’s not only that.”

From his back, he got out a squared packet. It was green. Paul took it, and, despite his fingers that had not ceased their quaking, he teared it open. His emotions, that he thought had already reached their peak, flew higher than he could handle. Because in his hands, was a notebook. A new, deep blue covered, notebook. He hurried to see its inside, but he couldn't go further than the first page: there was a note from John:

_“A new notebook is always a new beginning: times fly as pages are filled._

_They tell of a story of past smiles and past tears._

_To separate with it is allowing these memories to rest._

_For another journey, with memories yet to be made._

_Happy Birthday Paul: will you start this new beginning with me?”_

That was what was written, right on the first page.

Paul’s lower lip trembled.

The tidal wave hit him a second time.

All his attention zoomed on the object, the words, the guitar on his lap, the chilling wind freezing his bones, nature worried around him, John’s expectant figure next to him. He couldn’t regulate his breaths; he couldn’t rule over his overwhelmed limbs; he couldn't restrain the pathetic shivers of his hands and lips. The wave had slammed over the boat in his mind: his home. For having tried, so many times, to avoid getting too close to home when discussing with John, everything had been washed away; the captain keeping secrecy of his heart was destabilized, dominated by another force that wasn’t his. A deluge of emotions. Something foreign, swimming and streaming to his head. It had all become a mess. The notebook, the guitar, John: they had left behind a flood of unshed tears, where in the middle, stood a wreck of scattered dreams, memories, past smiles and loves: Paul's mind. But when he felt a hand on his shoulder, the stripping waters withdrew from Paul’s mind. His control laid flat on the sand like a shipwrecked sailor weakened and defeated, whose boat was drowning in the distance. Emotions had won. They took everything away.

The notebook represented too much.

In the back, he could barely hear the call from John’s lips. He had been blurringly looking at the book in his hand and the guitar underneath. His limbs were still shaking, but he would not cry. When his eyes connected with John’s worried one, John's brows creased. He scooted closer till his leg, which rested bent on the bench, was pressed to Paul’s and his other leg was enclosing him in, left knee pressed on his. From the movement of his lips, he could see he was asking if he had done something wrong; Paul didn’t know. He had never felt such a deluge of emotion; perhaps he did, but never of this type. It left him raw. He could feel an eerie sensation of nostalgia and sadness and joy an-and… love.

With a voice that was so cracked he would have cursed at it if he wasn’t so in shock, he tried to make an explanation out of the storm.

“It- it’s just that, the old notebook… it was from me mom.”

John’s mouth opened in a small “o”; he understood. Of course he did, Paul knew it. He wouldn’t have needed to say more, but he still did: there was a flood waiting to be drained. Trembling and shaky words expressed what his avoiding eyes couldn’t. On his guitar, the notebook was closed, and his hands were picking at each other’s nails.

This was how he found himself revealing — albeit still hiding the most he could salvage from the storm — what he never said to anyone else. Not even George.

“Y-you know, when she d- was gone…I didn’t have much time to really grieve. There was so much to do, and I-I suddenly found myself having to deal with everything; the family and house and- I had so much to do… I was so young,” his breath caught on a current of resentment, but it soon retired. “I sold my guitar, because I had to take on these new responsibilities; my dad said, “Grow up!” so I did you know?” he observed John’s eyes for some sort of a shared experience: there were none. So he quickly looked away. “Without the guitar, a big part o’ me was gone you know? The part of me that could be… free.”

As he uttered that precise word, he realized how much it rang true: the moment he had sold it, he had determined his fate; everyone told him he was supposed to be miserable, and eventually he was. Fuck, he would not cry.

“I-I had nothing anymore that was old' me. And me mom… So one day, when I was… a lil' bit down, I got in me paren- dad’s room. All her stuff was still there, hastily thrown in boxes. As if she wasn’t really put to rest you know? And on top of one of the boxes, there was a notebook. She had only filled three pages of it. So I took it.”

His trembling had gotten worse, somehow. But John’s other hand laid on his arm, and he gently whispered to him to continue. In the midst of all of this, Paul was grateful for one thing: he was allowed to speak.

He finally looked in John’s eyes and was pinned in place by the affection and sadness he found in them. Unflawed and sincere.

“I never dared to take a new one after that, you know. When it was completed, I just glued some new pages. I even strengthened the cover for it to hold it all. But I… I couldn’t be separated from it. It was the only thing that, you know…” His eyes widened. His mind had only one idea to supply for him. He didn’t like it, but it was true. So he admitted it. A desperate voice in the wind. “Made me feel me.”

He bit his lip, for he had said too much. Further syllables would ruin him. He was barely holding it together. The sailor — for he was no longer a captain at this point — on his drowning boat was waving an inflamed white cloth in the air; begging for this to stop now before he lost control.

A hand cradled his left cheek, making him gaze at John again. The man was so cautious. As if he was terrorized of expressing the wrong thing. As if he didn't know what he was doing. And yet… there was a desire to soothe in his eyes. A wish to bring back a crushed happiness. To see Paul’s smile. After a minute where he tried to find the correct words, he eventually settled for a short but significant question.

“And now: with this new guitar, this new notebook. With me. Do you… feel you again?”

Did he?

“I-I I… I think I do,” for the first time since he had been submerged by the waves, he felt light. Now that he had undergone all of this story, the waters had calmed, and his boat could sail calmly. No, not only that; it could sail clearly, knowingly, confidently. It was shaking and some parts were hurting, but it moved forward. A sudden knowledge that appeared at the conclusion of the storm, beneath the tide. His lips twitched up. Weak but sincere. “When I’m with you, I feel happy again. I feel like I reconnect with things that once made me happy. And.. I had never felt so special before I knew you. And now, you’re offering me the parts of myself that I had lost; the guitar, the notebook. So, you know, J-John-”

“Yes, Paul?”

Their eyes connected. Paul smiled. The words were the result of the storm; they flowed out, free.

“I’d be happy to start this new beginning with you.”

They both sat still, staring at each other, silent; letting the power of the sentence and what it implied settle over them. His limbs were still shaking, the burn in his eyes was still there. But his head and heart were cleared. So light. It was surreal; everything seemed like a dream.

After another minute, John spread his arms wide, and, with the softest smile he had ever seen, uttered in the quietness of the wind:

“Come here, you lil' bugger.”

And Paul did. He scooted to him, till the guitar and the notebook were squished between them, till John’s arms had circled him entirely, and his own gripped the back of his shirt. He squeezed his eyes shut as he took on a quivering breath against John’s shoulder. One of John’s hands slowly itched to his head. With great care, fingers began to scratch his hair, and he felt himself instantly relax. Deflating against John, all his control, his fake pretence were gone. The rawness of his heart made him stifle a whimper; the tears wouldn’t go beyond the corners of his eyes, blocked. John’s cheek was pressed to his. In his ear, he could hear a soothing, and barely audible: “shhhh… it’s ok.” He believed it. In these arms, he believed everything.

Paul loved him. He didn’t say it, but at this moment, he knew.

He scooted even closer; he nuzzled John’s neck and left a fleeting kiss on his neck. And they stayed like that, until his shaking limbs were stabilized, and the concern in John’s touches subsided.

Minutes passed in these arms.

They were walking on the Ghostly Path, on their way to the entrance, to the exit, to the end of this extraordinary beginning. On Paul’s back was the guitar in its bag, and in the pocket of the bag, the notebook. In his hand was John’s hand. On John’s shoulder was Paul’s head, and on Paul’s head was John’s head. They were inseparable. From the moment they had reluctantly parted, John telling him it was time to go. But they hadn’t been able to break the connection yet. There was something between them, at this very moment. Something so vivid and beating, with their own heart and mind in unison, but completely newborn and needing to be protected. A mental and physical link that plunged them into a dream. Two dreamers crossing the country. But the animals and departing families were so far away. Sometimes, John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting Paul guide him forward. Some other times, it was Paul who was guided forward, as he was letting himself relax. The entrance was in their sight, but it wasn’t really there, there was only them. They were together, they were happy, in this place that seemed now magically unreal. A product of their imagination. In their legs and their eyes, was a deep exhaustion: the day was over, the sun was lowering, the troubles were gone, now was the time to sleep. And God, if Paul could, he would have given up his job to return to John’s flat and not lose the peculiar link they were sharing. They wouldn't have done anything, they didn't need it; they would be together. However, he had to. Their steps slowed down the closer they got to the entrance, their sides pressed tighter. They both didn’t want to leave.

John had called a cab for the return. They both knew they’d probably be stuck in traffic, but they didn’t care, for they would have more precious minutes to spend here. It was twenty-six past six; he had a good hour to arrive at the restaurant.

He had no guilt over ditching his job. He had spent the most beautiful afternoon of his life.

What a lovely birthday.

The cab arrived in front of the entrance; they hurried in and gave the restaurant’s address. They were on their way to Hot Chillies.

The ride was quiet. Their hands remained together.

Pulling in in front of the restaurant, they found themselves arriving with a good fifteen minutes of advance to what had been planned. That meant the plan had been a success; the conditions had been respected.

But did he really care at this point about that? Not at all.

The car drove off. They stood in front of each other, awkwardly. Their hands separated. Paul was already missing the link. John was looking at the ground, scratching his nape.

“So, eh, I guess I’ll see you later tonight then? Eh?”

He didn’t sound confident. There was a little trace of doubt in his eyes; they weren't believing he had done it right. John was seeking proof that he had succeeded. Paul saw it and smiled. He would give him one.

Taking a step forward, cradling John’s cheeks in his hands and pressing him flushed to his chest, he enjoyed the look of uncertain surprise at the actions; his wide eyes weren't confident. Paul only hummed, advancing his head closer to John’s. Letting their lips brush, as his lids slowly lowered. John was beginning to melt in his hands. His lips pressed against John. He was kissing him, in front of the restaurant. John sighed in the kiss; a sigh that carried all the doubts of his mind, all the fears of his past; it was captured by Paul’s moving mouth. Reassured by tender hands on his cheeks. Paul, simply thanking him. For the most beautiful afternoon of his life.

He made another resolve that day: to shower John with love until he knew he was worthy of every touch and kiss; until he stopped hesitating before any of them. Till then, he wouldn't go further.

When they withdrew, they were both grinning; like children who had shared the best adventure in the world. Paul chuckled, before he stepped back.

But this time, it was alright; he was taking with him, on his lips, the link he shared with John. He was still with him.

“I’ll be here.”

With these final words, they departed. He watched John’s retreating figure in the distance, until it faded away. The date was over.

Back to work.

He didn’t know how he would manage to concentrate tonight. He didn’t even know how he was still standing up. But he knew he would manage. He knew, when he would stride in, his professionalism would kick in, and he would start working, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t shared a dream. He would need a minute, that was all. And once it was all done, he would be back to John: the man he loved.

With resolve, he made his decision. On his phone, it was seven past twenty. It was time to go.

He stepped in the restaurant.

He didn't have a minute. 

There was no time for his professionalism to kick in.

His eyes widened in horror.

He saw his boss.

_“And where have you been now?”_

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 14_ **

(~ 7600 words) 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Friday for chapter 15! As always,leave a comment to tell me what you liked, it ll make me night  
> Have a nice beautiful day/night, and take care ! Cant wait to see you all again next week


	15. Too Many People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I fucked up. Again."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone on this bright new day !!!!!!  
> ....  
> For chapter 15.  
> This is the end of the second part of the story; we've been hinting at this chapter since the beginning of the story...  
> So buckle up, take a drink, sit in a comfy place, this is a long and heavy ride  
> See ya at the end of it !

“Paul! Where were you?! The service started an hour ago, and I had to do it instead of you! What kind of professionalism is that? Don’t you feel any shame?”

The storm of words struck him the moment he had stepped inside. It followed him as his boss dragged him to the kitchen. Dizzy by the sudden atmosphere difference, he couldn’t understand everything that had been said; it was all too fast, all too blurry. Around him he noted tables filled with people but empty of food, groans of discontent and complaints resonating through the walls, more people coming in or leaving angrily. What was going on? He saw, as if from outside his own body, his boss literally manhandling and pushing him through the kitchen; Paul stumbled on the way, guitar swinging on his back. On trembling legs, he straightened with a worktop’s assistance; his eyes looked up and widened at the scene. There Jacob was, surrounded by fuming pans, disorganized plates, ovens ringing, fridges' doors wide opened, ingredients on the floor and overwhelming the worktops; the smell of burnt food lingered in the air. The kitchen help, who was supposed to be the chef until George’s return tomorrow, was completely overwhelmed; it was the first time he saw him so active, to the point of sweating bullets; his shirt was completely soaked. On his right, Paul suddenly comprehended the mess: the board with their order sheet was saturated; there were no vacant spaces remaining. More were thrown underneath. From the opening that revealed the principal room to the kitchen, he watched the progression of what would be certainly recalled as a hellish night.

Well, that was another birthday surprise, he supposed.

Yet he hadn't understood. Where was Jimmy to serve the table and cover for him? According to John’s plan, he was supposed to come back at half past seven, where deliveries would start thanks to Jacob who would delay them. Jimmy would be here, working as a waiter just like every Saturday. Saturday nights were always packed, but they always managed. It never seemed to look so bad. And Bailey… he was supposed to be at his other restaurant, the one on the docks, for their special night offer or something; why was he here then? He wasn’t supposed to be here, looking at him through dark frightening eyes, his mouth set in an ugly grimace. The man towered over him, and Paul was cowering with guilt.

What had happened to John’s plan? Why was nothing happening according to it?

When the boss inquired a third time to where he had been, Paul tried to fetch for a decent answer; he provided none. Jacob had paused in his work, contemplating the scene enfolding. Making Paul's anxiety rise to increased heights; he hated the judgement that radiated from them: pity and shame. God he was revolted with himself.

Ultimately, he whispered a blunt and frustrated: "I have no excuses, Sir."

Douglas Bailey, hand passing through his greying hair, sighed.

"Paul, I've been so patient and understanding with you… but now this? I'm disappointed."

Paul visibly flinched. The creeping feeling of failure was back with brute force. It left him drained. But his anxiety kept jolting him over and over again. Fuck what was going to happen to him now?

"You better make it up," Bailey started, jabbing his finger to Paul's chest."Since Jimmy is sick, we cancelled the deliveries, but that meant that you had to do the service instead. Not that you could run off leaving me to do it, when it's not my job to!!"

The yell had taken everyone by surprise: Paul whose widening eyes froze, Jacob whose pan in his hand fell on the surface, the clients who had stopped eating to try and glimpse at the events in the kitchen. Bailey barely noticed the echo of his scream. This was the first time he had ever yelled at an employee. The grey man drew back, running a hand through his hair and sighing in exhaustion. Before turning around, he sent one last threatening glance at Paul.

"You better manage this service Paul. You have been slacking off immensely lately. This is the last straw."

He left him there. Back to the main room, he paused and was crossing his arms and waiting for him. The message was clear: he would be overseeing his every move for the duration of all the service.

There was no time to waste anymore. This was Paul's sole chance of redeeming himself: he couldn't fail once again.

Putting his guitar in a corner of the room, letting it go with pain; he got up on his unstable legs to take an apron and a notepad. Eyes were on him; he pivoted and fell on Jacob's, who mouthed a small "sorry"; he would ask him later what happened; he would know. But he had to begin the service before. His vision was blurry with the stress of what was about to take place. Inspecting the room with so many people, so much noise, made him nauseous. He propped himself up on the worktop and breathed deeply. In and out. In…. And out…. In- interrupted once again by a plate falling on the ground, a meal splattered on the floor. Fuck and now there was that to deal with. Gripping a broomstick, he didn't think further and took care of the mess. As he was sweeping the floor clear, somehow, it grounded him; he was slowly controlling something. Sinking back to his professionalism. When he was done, gone was the tremble in his legs and the anxiety itched on his forehead; instead, a hard frown, closed eyes, mouth in a straight line. He would take matters into his own hands. Something needed to be done.

If his boss wanted to see if he could manage it, he would show him: he had this under control.

With determined steps he made his way to the main room, and the service could really begin.

There was so much to be done. He had to catch on where they had left off, what had been ordered and what was remaining to be prepared and served; the board full of order sheets was threatening, but he memorized them all in a minute no more. According to what he had seen, there were already lagging behind; the first tables were not all served; he couldn’t imagine how long people would have to wait. He asked Jacob how he was dealing with everything: pretty badly. That wasn’t an understatement. He promised to him he would help when he could — he had basic cooking knowledge, and at this point any kind of support would be appreciated. Paul moved to the main room, plastering a fake smile on his face; it twisted when he found himself in the middle of the hostile and impatient crowd. He swallowed their frustration; they wouldn’t intimidate him and his polite smile. Mustering his charm and patience, he went to each table to excuse them for the delay. This was a strategy to soothe the tension in the room: it took three minutes and was a success. With some free drinks and some few winks, the rising anger stilled and diminished. A sigh of relief, a boost of confidence — not too much — and he went back to the kitchen to take the first plates he had the pleasure to serve. His boss watched from where he stood next to the counter.

However, Paul grew confused: he was standing there, brows furrowed as he brought the plates to what was supposed to be table number nine; but it wasn’t. Staring a hole in the table he had been convinced to serve, where was the paper with written “n°9” on it? Where was the number nine? Shit- he turned around, looking at the tables in his vicinity; number nine, number nine, number nine… He repeated the number as a mantra. But there were no numbers. The numbered papers had all disappeared! His stress rose in an instant, not grasping what had happened to their usual meticulous planning. What was he supposed to do now? This was wrong, someone had messed with his organization and-

“Something troubling you, my boy?”

Paul jerked as his boss spoke from above, his large and toned body so close it was startling. The plates in his hands trembled.

“I- excuse me Sir, but I can’t seem to understand what happened to the numbers on the tables it-”

“We changed them,” he answered straightforwardly. Paul blinked, until he couldn’t refrain from letting his annoyance seep through his voice.

“Why would you do that? It was fine before.”

“There weren't enough papers for the table we added for tonight.”

_The tables we what?_ Paul thought, horrified. Ordinarily, the restaurant had a capacity of about forty clients for the tables they had. Paul gave a quick look around and surely he noticed it; not only was the room filled, but they were even more clients than what the restaurant was used to having. 

Why the fuck was this happening now?

After his boss quickly showed that the table numbers were merely following a circle, Paul thanked him and tried to quench his fear down. Alright. His organization had been completely thrown off, and his habits scattered. But he could still do it. He had promised he would.

However, after he served about fifteen plates, no others were coming from the kitchen. The service abruptly ceased. Jacob wasn’t following the rhythm. Paul had tried to encourage him, to lift the man up with his words and orders. Indicating what he had to do, fixing the few mistakes in plating for him, giving him advice. Not realizing it wasn’t helping, because the man was alone, and they had about sixty clients in the restaurant, and about half of them who still had no dinner. People were still coming in. It was half past eight. So, Paul joined him in the kitchen. He had to be both a waiter and a kitchen help for tonight.

As he associated with him in trying not to get the kitchen to burn and crumble, Jacob decided to talk to him. His voice was guilty and panicked, full of regrets; if Paul had time, he would have admitted the situation had to be the worst mess he had ever had to deal with in this job; especially if it made Jacob both so active and so… full of feelings.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he had started, and Paul had listened with curiosity, while still plating up with what Jacob had cooked. “Bailey arrived at six, an-and when I asked what he was doing here, he just said he was here for tonight’s special offer,” Jacob must have noticed how Paul’s eyebrows knitted for he readily acquiesced with Paul. “I know I was like you! It was supposed to be at his other restaurant _The Floating Grace_. But he made a change of plan this morning. And you wanna hear the best part? Well, he didn’t warn us because he wanted to “test us”. Like, if we were good employees or not.”

Paul’s whole body stiffened at that. Fuck. A test. And he had not passed.

Feeling himself deflate, he was examining his plates grimly: was there still any fucking chance?

“I’m sorry, I had no way to contact you. Jimmy was sick, and so Bailey waited for you. I tried to stall for time but-”

“It’s ok,” he finally regained the strength to speak. A weary faint smile on his face, he rested his hand on Jacob’s shoulder. At least in all this chaos, he hoped one of them wouldn’t be fired. “You did the best you could, and I thank you for that.”

After that, they didn’t speak about it again. It was no good lingering on a sense of failure. There was still so much.

Yet, their efforts had not been in vain. Paul was recognizing the end of the road; as the service progressed, the board emptied. His apron was stained, he was sweating profusely, the polite smile he wore hurt his cheeks, and he never stopped moving; the clients were served and the tables were emptying. When he noticed there were only thirty people left in the room, and no one else coming in, his hope surged again. An eternal optimist, for he acted more promptly with revived energy. Despite the degrading quality of the plates they were serving — thanking every Indian deities George wasn’t here to witness that! — and Jacob’s growing disorganization, Paul pulled them afloat. Any mistakes, he fixed them. Any complaints, he soothed them. He was everywhere, flying from tables to tables, from the main room to the kitchen. Multitasking, relishing in the control it conferred him over everything, he dared to think that this service persisted only thanks to him. He was fixing the mess. He was the one holding the responsibilities over everything.

If it failed, it would be thoroughly his fault now. Not Jacob’s, not Jimmy’s, nor his boss’. It was completely his, because he had taken on everyone’s job.

There was a grin on his face now. He was getting a kick out of this. He was working hard and it was paying off, the challenge being no match for him. 

He didn't try to be cautious of his growing confidence. 

From the corner, the boss had remained, unmoving. Watching.

Twenty-seven plates left: it was half past nine. A client whined that his meal was cold. Paul wished to tell him that with the wait, everyone’s food had gone cold — so he could just shut the fuck up and leave him be; he sent him an apologetic smile and warmed it without question.

Eighteen plates left: his boss moved to question five different tables. He talked longer with one. Not hearing anything, Paul had brushed it off. Desserts were coming, people were disappearing. His sudden agoraphobia could finally reduce.

Ten plates left: it was ten o'clock. These poor people. Jacob had mixed their orders and had to redo them. Paul urged him along into arranging meals worth the wait. At the minimum he polished the presentation.

Two plates left: he put them on table number nine. There were only six tables occupied now. It was all done. They had succeeded. The worst of the rush was over. Desserts and goodbyes were the only things left. But the board sheet was empty. And the room was finally at peace.

Paul won.

As the thought settled in his head, he allowed himself to let out a huge breath; it contained all the anxiety he had to suppress to survive this hellish service. With a puff of air, it was all evaporating. Away from Paul. Shoulders slumping, a wobbly hand brushed over his sweaty fringe. He could relax now. The strangling grip he had held over himself, choking his fears and doubts, finally loosened, letting emotions flow back freely to his head. The professionalism he exerted melted. He even attempted a joke or two.

It felt as if it was all good; he had risen to the challenge and came out victorious. He had controlled everything. Like a pro. He grinned wider, his confidence high. How could he have doubted this? Of course he'd manage! He was always so close to perfection in everything he was doing. This wasn't an exception. He praised himself, congratulated himself, proud: because no one else would ever do it for him. There was no way the service couldn’t finish smoothly. Only six tables left, already served. They were so close to the end he could grasp it. It would be ok.

Oh how wrong he had been.

His boss came to him as he was humming to himself behind the counter, while a group of clients paid the bill by card. Bailey waited for the group of people to depart, before addressing Paul. There were five tables occupied left.

“So, Paul,” he drew Paul’s attention to him. “How would you judge tonight’s service?”

His mind was on alert: this method of asking employee’s their opinions on their work was always designed to force them to state the wrong thing; make a mistake. Paul wouldn’t let himself be tricked. No matter the exhaustion he felt or the adrenaline making him too sure of himself.

“Well, tonight’s service was probably the hardest one we had to face yet, Sir,” he began, hands tied behind his arched back. “But Jacob and I overcame it. I know our work was probably not of the best quality, but we managed it.”

“Oh really? And how would you define “managing a service”, my boy?”

The question was peculiar. He raised an eyebrow, perplexed. Where was his boss trying to lead him to? Nevertheless, he answered mechanically.

“Well, Sir, we made every plate and ensured every client had their orders. Even though some were late, and some were not perfect, none were left behind. All tables were served, Sir.”

There was a second of silent as Bailey gauged him from above with his hawk-like grey eyes. When the second was over, he beckoned him to follow. Paul fell into his steps behind him, puzzled beyond understanding. On edge again.

They stopped in front of a table in the furthest corner of the room; it was so far off it was barely lit. There sat a couple of elders: a woman with a heavy coat of fake hermit fur and small glasses perking above a long, thin nose; a man with a round face and a moustache _à la Staline_ , if that was a thing — how the fuck did he get that image? Anyway. Paul nodded politely to the couple, and they nodded back; but they were more open to his boss’ patronizing smile. It screamed to Paul that something was wrong here, but he couldn’t place what. As he looked more closely at the couple, he noticed they eyed him with a certain disdain. Great if that was another one of those posh couple complainin-

“These clients would like to know the reason as to why you never took their orders, Paul.”

His thoughts abruptly stopped. He stood there, blinking at Bailey. This was impossible to conceive in his mind Forgetting a table; he hadn’t done such a thing since his first service! The shame had been too enormous then. There was no way he'd ever reproduce the mistake. It was absurd. 

“I- excuse me?”

The lady faked disgust over his manners. The man seemed amused. Bailey was smirking. As if all of this was a fucking joke and Paul’s job wasn’t in jeopardy. A fucking play; Paul was the buffoon who was mocked by the court for his lack of intelligence.

He felt his nerves frizzle. That was something he couldn't stand. 

“Oh but I thought I had been clear, Paul. You neglected that table during all your service.”

“But that can’t be!” he had cried out, inducing Bailey’s surprised reaction. Paul would have been surprised too, if a crippling panic wasn’t climbing to grasp over his lungs and make him suffocate with fear. He lowered himself closer to the client — the man that had been amused — almost pleading. “Sir, didn’t you order? I’m sure there was a mistake in the kitchen and we forgot to give you what-” 

“Oh don’t fret about the kitchen, since we never got to order anyway,” the client patted Paul’s hand, the paternal smile trying to reassure him in a twisted way. “You just never noticed us. You were all busy running around to let us catch your attention for more than a glimpse. You forgot us, that’s all.”

The sheer simplicity and finality of that statement cut through him. _No. No, this couldn’t be-_

“This is impossible!” Again, a cry that had morphed into a frustrated yell. This time, the remaining tables in the restaurant were attracted to the commotion; Jacob exited the kitchen to peer at the trouble taking place; all heads were turned to Paul. “There’s something wrong here. This couldn’t have happened- You must have come later, when we had closed the doors to new clients, I don’t see any other-”

“Paul!” Bailey interrupted with an indignant shout. “Are you accusing our clients of your mistake?”

“But I wouldn’t have done such a thing!” He yelled back as he had abruptly straightened and faced Bailey. Fists trembling by his sides. Suddenly, all the politeness that had held him back crashed. The control he had let go of earlier didn’t succeed in dominating him this time. The grip on his throat was too loose, and the grasp on his heart too tight; it squeezed everything out. There was an overwhelming anxiety in charge. Because this was impossible. No, not him.

He couldn’t believe he would have made a basic organization mistake. After everything. He couldn’t have forgotten one table.

And so, he started to drift to unreasonable reasoning. He sealed his fate, the moment he opened his mouth again.

“That table wasn’t there before!” He shouted, pointing to the table next to him. He felt unsteady.

“Now Paul-”

“And it’s because of you!" he pointed an accusing finger to him. "It’s not my fault! You’re the one who disorganized the whole thing! You’re the one who took most of the orders in the beginning of the service! It’s not my fault. I fucking had to fix everything!”

His face was growing redder as he went on, yelling everything he had that weighed over his mind. Stress spewing out of his mouth in foul words but blunt truths. Stepping up to his boss. Resisting the urge to throw up. Bailey’s face was closing off. In the room, the silence was deafening.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder; he glanced at its belonger: Jacob.

“Paul it’s not worth it. Please just let it go an-”

He brushed him off, facing the other man again. Because it was fucking too late.

“So what if I did forget them? It means I made one mistake during the service and- there were too many people! I can’t do eve- No I can but I- I was supposed to manage this, to have a minimum of control and you’re saying I didn’t? I had it! You're lying, I had succeeded! I was so fucking proud- And then you- And that table- and you saying- I couldn’t do it! I- It’s not- it’s- it is… I…” he was failing to keep his words, his breaths too erratic. Frustrated, his fist rose to push on his forehead, hurting his head more than it soothed him, but needing to fucking feel something in the windmill of panic he was facing. It was all crumbling apart in front of him: his work, his control, his image, himself. There was nothing. He was nothing. He had proved it once again.

He opened his tightly shut eyes and stared at the floor. He couldn't breathe. His expression was lost. His mind was a shipwreck after a storm.

“I failed.”

The moment he uttered these words, he stepped back. Another step; he almost collapsed; Jacob had caught his shaking frame and lowered it into the nearest chair. As he did this, he tried to make eye-contact, tried to feebly ground him. It was no use: Paul’s panic won, and he was crushed by his defeat. He had lost it.

“Ok- Paul, sit down, just breathe a bit here ok? Come on mate…”

The reassuring words felt empty. He was staring above, at the void in front of him, trying to breathe, trying to freeze. The only thing he was able to mutter was the following:

“Too many people.”

He felt as if his mind fled his body. It was silent in his head, as his body curled on itself in the chair. _I want out._

In the distance, over the void of his head, he could hear his boss announcing the service was over and apologizing to the remaining clients. Bailey had concluded the outcome of this service: he had failed.

Paul's fate was no surprise to anyone. They all knew, before it was even announced.

The tables were cleaned around him. The floor was swept. The restaurant’s lights were dimmed. The doors were closed. Bailey had retreated to the counter, rummaging. Jacob was doing the chores, not looking at him. Paul sat there, immobile. His mind, a still white ocean.

He wished he could remain in this state of shock for longer, though; this way, he was avoiding his arising problems and his renewed issues. The calm of a shocked mind was better than the anxiety of an awaiting life.

He had failed from the beginning to the end.

Eventually, he stood up; Bailey was in front of him, waiting; Jacob was by his side, back to his phone to pretend nothing was happening and Paul couldn’t blame him for doing this; he wished he could do that too. They just stared at one another. Both of them wore solemn and impassable masks. Paul had slipped back into the familiar professionalism that had protected his heart from the sorrows and pains from this version of his life. His boss sighed. A long and heavy sigh.

“Paul… I think you know what I have to do now. There’s no point in stating it loudly.”

Paul nodded. The tension in the room was speaking for itself. He was out.

“It doesn’t please me, Paul, to do this,” Bailey admitted, as he lowered himself to a nearby chair and rested his steepled fingers on the table. He was going in for a speech. “I always had great hopes for you. When George brought you in, you had no experience but I still took the chance and hired you. I thought that maybe there was still some feeble chance you could contribute to society. That you weren’t just another of these dependent unfortunate people who, when given the chance to have a job and a pay, ruin it…" he trailed on, letting the guilt sink in. Before knocking him out. "But you did.”

The reminder of his condition, mixed with the shame over the truth of his boss’ statement made him hang his head down. Because he was right: he had been provided the chance to finally have a somewhat stable job, with a low salary but decent enough to live. He finally didn’t have to wake up in the morning, scared he might lose another precarious employment. He didn’t have to go back and forth from one part-time job to another. Didn’t have to stare emptily at the almost non-existent list of job offers for students that didn’t have any qualifications whatsoever. Didn’t have to go back to the much dreaded unemployment office and be interrogated by the old lady who, with each question, showed to the whole room how much he had failed at life. Didn't have to listen to her trying to convince him that no, he shouldn't be proud of who he was, he shouldn't ever be happy about his life. Didn’t have to be surrounded by others like him, that had forgotten there were good times in their lives. Over were the days where, since he was jobless and the rule between his father and him stated so, he had to leave the house. Over were the rare occurrences where he slept in the streets, hiding it from his family. Over were the fewer times where a homeless man or woman, who was camping next to him, stared, and uttered: _“You’re too young.”_

And he had taken this occasion and crushed it all away. All of these things that were over thanks to a job, were now coming back. He must have had a sick pleasure in missing them, or else he would have been more careful.

He shouldn’t have gone with John this afternoon. This had been the best and worst day of his life.

“Tonight, you proved that you couldn’t do this. You tried to fix it, but you only made it worse. I’m immensely disappointed in you, Paul.”

The judgement should have terminated him. It felt more like another weight to add to the list of his growing fiascos.

Bailey exhaled loudly, before standing up to shake his hand.

“You may return your apron and leave.”

This would be the conclusion of the night. He took off his apron and left it on the table. Without a noise, he went to the kitchen. He heaved the guitar on his back — John’s gift. A last glance at the kitchen; he would never see it again. But perhaps, after tonight, it was better he forgot about it.

Before he could open the doors and flee, he heard his boss address him.

“And Paul?” Paul shifted dejected eyes in his direction. The man’s grave expression had softened. “Good luck.”

This was the last words he would ever hear from the man; Jacob waved goodbye. He stepped out. 

The moment his face was hit by the fresh air of a June’s night, he ran to the nearest bin and threw up. The anxiety of what was to come, the shame over his lack of control and the tiredness over everything, wanted out. Repulsed by his own very self. When he was finally done — heaving five times and taking large intakes of air in between — he retreated with quivering legs. He had to go home; to prepare to leave his father again.

He wouldn’t go to John’s flat tonight.

As he was distractedly texting his boyfriend his apologies for not being able to come in the end, he noticed the hour: it was past eleven. The sky filled with the half-moon, but no stars. The wind chilled him to his bones, and he wished he had taken his Bowie sweater with him: his last comfort. With the darkness around him, the streets were not that lively. But they rarely were here. He started to walk to the Renshaw Street bus stop. About thirty minutes instead of the usual fifteen bicycle ride; the bicycle belonged to the restaurant, therefore he had no other choice. It would give him time to think.

The bus stop was calm. There was a drunken old man on the bench and a couple frenching each other loudly. Paul stayed up, hands in his jeans pocket. When the orange colors indicating the bus number and its final destination arrived — 86A, Speke — he climbed in and sat in the middle seats. Fortunately, there weren’t many people in the bus. He wouldn't have been able to deal with too many people again. The doors closed, and the yellow lights brightened as the bus drove. He looked to the window as the streets passed by.

He didn’t want to go back to the way things used to be. But what other solution did he have? He had no job. That meant, according to the rule, that he was supposed to leave the house until he found another one. He didn’t want to be a burden to his father — god he was twenty-four, he shouldn’t have to even slightly bother his father at such an age! So he knew that he would have to pack a bag with essential stuff and leave in the morning. He could have asked George to house him for at least a night; facing his anger at the fact Paul had run off and fucked over the chance George had given him with that job was something he prefered to avoid. He felt unworthy. So, probably finding a spot then. He was sure he could find somewhere; there were always some abandoned rooms in Speke… or some empty street elsewhere. There were no explanations he would be able to give his father. Just the usual “I’ll be back when I can bring money to the house”. He winced; fuck he didn’t want to go back to the unemployment office; the judgement, the miserabilism, the categorisation he had to endure, as if he was just another number to England’s unemployment rates — which he was: he despised it. He’d try to keep away from it as much as he could.

And what would he tell John? Would he even go back to him? The shame he felt was preventing him from including John in any of his thoughts; he wasn’t worthy of him too. He had failed to save the service; he had yelled at his boss; he had blamed Jacob for the state of the plates and his poor work; he had tried to be everywhere at the same time; he had accused a client; he had missed the beginning of a service; he had ran off from his job to be with John. He shouldn’t have. The careful control he had built over himself had slipped to ultimately shatter. It was time to build it back. It was all his fault.

There were long and uncertain days ahead of him. Paul just wished he could sleep them all away. Yet, he had never been one to run from his responsibilities; he only allowed himself a short nap against the bus’ window.

The headlights from the bus illuminated the Cleveley Road stop. Arriving at last. It was twenty-three to midnight.

A two minute walk, and he was in front of his father’s house in Forthlin Road. It was time. Taking out the key, he opened the door, and stepped in.

His dad was on their old and worn out couch in the living-room/kitchen/dining room. Paul didn’t know why he was still up in the narrow room, reading an unknown book with a faint light on. When his father turned his eyes to him, the smile that had morphed into his face faded. Paul hadn’t smiled back. He must have noticed he felt dead.

“Hey dad…”

His father stood up; Paul rushed to his side when he saw him hobble; his father waved him off, clutching his crutch to put his weight on. With a tight smile, Paul knew it was more of pain than anything else. No matter how much his father would try to convince him he was getting better, Paul knew it still hurt him: mentally and physically. Fucking accident; he wouldn’t have ended with a lower spinal cord injury; wouldn't have been paralysed for five years. He still took a step forward to help, but his father puffed out his chest.

“Stop it Paul, I’m fine. I don't need your assistance now."

There was a lingering resentment in his voice, badly muffled; tired of being stigmatized but acknowledging he wouldn't be here without him. But his expression shifted as he distinguished the shape of the bag on Paul's back.

"Is-is that a guitar on your back?"

Oh. That. That was probably the only good thing left of today. With the notebook.

By the way, now that he thought of it, John had gifted him a notebook to start a "new beginning"; well, with what happened today, he couldn't have been more right. Internally he snorted; so much for a new beginning…

"Someone gave it to me," his dad likely thought it was George; that was the only friend Paul had — before John and Ringo. But that wasn't important: he had to talk about his situation. They weren't ones to beat around the bush. "Look dad I- need to tell you something."

His father sighed. Oh of course he could feel the problems coming; Paul's apathetic posture screamed: _"I fucked up. Again."_

"Then what is it?" Crossing his arms as he sent him a stern look. Preparing himself for yet another trouble on their extensive list.

Paul took a deep breath. Time to reveal his failure.

"I lost my job."

In his father's composure, there was only a twitch of an eyebrow. Wishing to ask, to reprimand, but refraining himself from doing so. He wanted to know more.

Rubbing his face with his hand; he was so tired.

"I failed; I came late to work, and the service was a mess. I tried you know?" he looked up, hand resting on his forehead. Trying to convince his father that he at least didn't give up. "I really tried to fix it, redeeming myself you know. Cause lately, I was already not working as well... But- ultimately, I just ruined it more. We couldn't finish, and it's because of me."

There was a long pause after that. A heavy atmosphere. One that both couldn’t break. But what else could be added to the resignation that resided deep within his heart? Nothing. He was nothing. He had no energy in him to fight it; perhaps in another time, in another’s company, he would have; it was his dad; there were no pretences to fake it with him.

The nonexistent answers from his father spoke for itself: he was as resigned as him.

Wasn’t that all just wonderfully pitiful? Disgusting. Paul found his own self disgusting.

But soon he knew he would lose that pride that made him feel like that. Soon, it would be customary once again.

What was the point of dwelling on it? Might as well pack and go now. No use pretending he belonged here for longer.

"I'm just gonna pack my stuff and leave. You know the rule,” he said as he tightened his hold on his bag. About to pass his father and walk to his room, he was stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his unresponsive father calling for him. When he turned, he observed his regretful expression try to prevent him from leaving. Needing to interrupt him in his tracks.

“You don't have to leave. I know the rule, but it- it was when you were young, when I had to make sure you’d try to get a job, to push you a bit and move on from your mother's-”

“A rule is a rule dad; I’m not transgressing it.”

The finality in his statement should have snapped his father’s mouth shut; he persisted.

“At least stay the night.”

It was a reasonable proposition. Tempted, but not ready to let go, he gazed at the end of the stairs; his room would be here, cold and unwelcoming; the scene of his departure. He wasn’t impatient for that; he could afford to stay — “to afford” was an ironic poor choice of your words in his situation. He nodded. His father’s tense shoulders slumped; why such relief?

He was answered the moment he was back to his side.

“You haven’t planned to go back to the streets, have you? Promise you won’t. Please.”

“I-I…” Paul’s cheeks reddened; of course that was what he had planned. He had done it a couple of times, that's all…. Or maybe three times, he couldn't recall. His father must have sensed his hesitancy, for he dangerously glared at him. So, he rushed off the first thought that flew through his brain. “Maybe I’ll go to my boyfriend’s flat for a while…”

His eyes widened: he mentioned his boyfriend. He had never done that before. He never had anyone to mention before. Especially so naturally, with his father. Not only that: he considered John’s help in this situation. The random suggestion had actually taken roots in his head; it did not seem so foolish. John wouldn’t refuse. But… could he allow himself to ask? Surely, asking John to house him for a couple of days would mean to reveal where he came from to him. It was risking losing John’s respect. Risking being pitied — he'd hate for his lover to see him only as a "poor miserable boy", and nothing else; as if he couldn't ever be happy. 

And yet… He hadn’t discarded the idea. Secretly, it became worth a try. It became a possibility that he could trust...Trying to dismiss his embarrassment, he put his hand to his father’s shoulder, gently following him where he wished to be. It led them to the kettle on top of the fridge. He watched him take out two cups from the cardboard with two teabags. His movements were more tranquil now. Weirdly comforting.

After a reflective hum, his dad’s lips curved upwards as he eyed him with an amused glint.

“Is he the one who offered you the guitar?”

Again, Paul could only nod. He felt like he should have said more; he had no energy to do so. His father paid it no mind; his smile became real.

“I’m glad that you met someone, Paul. You need it,” he encouraged, patting his son’s shoulder. His other hand was still gripping on the clutch.

Perhaps, at least there was one nicer outcome in this night; his father being happy for him. It made him smile back. Faint, but it was there.

His father pointed to the kettle.

“Why don’t we talk with a cup of tea for your last night here? You’ll tell me all about him, alright? I'm sure he is a lovely lad.”

The invitation from the usually so grave-faced man who was his father was rare; rarer was the warmth of it. As if he was taking on the paternal figure he had been supposed to bear years ago, but hadn’t been able to.

Paul couldn’t refuse him. No matter how tired he was.

Filling water in the cups, his father walking to the sofa and Paul taking a chair from the dining table to sit next to him. There was a second where he feebly realized it might have been better not to waste more of his energy, his bed fooling him into thinking he would manage to sleep. It didn’t stand strong in the face of his father’s question. It was a meaningless one, really. Just asking what his boyfriend’s name was. But after he answered, he couldn’t stop. He just rambled, as he stared at the ground. About John, what he was like, what he looked like, how they had met, how he made him feel... happy. Sometimes, he would smile affectionately. The flow of words couldn’t be stopped, and his father urged him on. It felt good. Somehow, he could push the event in the back of his mind, and let himself be comforted by thoughts of John and be reassured by his father's warm encouragement. He was so relieved his father supported him and was glad for him. It made him feel free despite it all. He thoroughly enjoyed their conversation. They hadn’t talked like that in a long time.

It was a shame it only happened when he was about to leave.

***

Paul stood in front of John and Ringo’s door. It was Sunday morning, barely eight; he carried a guitar bag on his back, a gym bag in his hand, and shadows under his eyes. He was hesitant to knock.

Before leaving this morning, he had interrogated his father, repeating the same questions over and over again, under his father’s immovable reassurance; sometimes stern and sometimes warm. Was it his fault for being so concerned? He had asked if he had enough money for the month; he reminded Paul he still had some benefits left, and his occasional teaching — a piano teaching job, because it was difficult to find one in his old factory with his limp legs. He had asked to call him if the nurse didn’t come this week, he would take care of it; his father laughed. He had asked him not to overdo it, to be patient with his body; his father scorned him — he didn’t need pity; like father like son. There were too many other worries, but his father kept comforting him, convincing he could live without him — it was hard to believe when you had spent most of your life taking care of him and Mike. His father even dared say he might have a job soon, that he had applied for one a week ago. He could only hope he was right.

When he had been about to go, his father hugged him. Held him tight. Paul embraced him back. They didn’t know what the future was made of.

The only way to find out was to knock on the door.

So, he did.

He was still so tired.

The door opened in front of him. Ringo was in the entrance, his toothy eternal grin blinding him. He had a bright red shirt — the color of love. As he recognized him instantly, he shouted John’s name. From inside were hurried footsteps, striding to them. Then John was next to Ringo; he looked lovely. But both of their grins dropped when Paul stayed quiet. He was avoiding their eyes.

He hoped for a second they would refuse. Their concerned eyes were too much.

Eventually, he looked up again. Summoned the courage to speak.

“Can I crash at your place for a couple of days?”

It would be another long, hard moment to pass.

_____________________________________

**_End of Chapter 15_ **

(~ 7500 words) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
> So this happened now  
> Hey, I had said this would be a serious story too after all lol  
> Dont hate me I promise it'll get better. Just not yet lol.  
> As always, please leave a comment if you liked it and what you liked, it'll make me day ^^  
> Otherwise, see you in two weeks for the next chapter; take care and have a beautiful day/night 💙

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading ^^ Please, leave a comment to tell me what you thought, if you liked it, fav moment, or if you got a reference, it will make my day. But if you don't have the time, leave a lil kudos  
> Have a great day/night and stay safe ♥  
> EDIT: if you wanna say hi! Heres my discord: @AngieW2377  
> 


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